
filass ?E 1 4 E. 
Book .336 



+ L 



LECTURES 



RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES. 




' ' , '■ . 



3fi[W®"SK jJiijJ:,i>,.L' 






LECTURES 



RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES. 



HUGH BLAIR, D.D. RR.S. 

ONE OF THE MINISTERS OF THE HIGH CHURCH, 

AND PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES IN THE 

UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH. 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME, 
fflaaitfj a portrait. 



LONDON : 

Printed for 

THOMAS TEGG, 73, CHEAPSIDE. 



1841. 









> 



\K 



,1' 



PREFACE. 



The following Lectures were read in the University 
of Edinburgh, for twenty-four years. The publication 
of them, at present, was not altogether a matter of 
choice. Imperfect copies of them in manuscript, from 
notes taken by students who heard them read, were 
first privately handed about ; and afterwards frequently 
exposed to public sale. When the author saw them 
circulate so currently, as even to be quoted in print,* 
and found himself often threatened with surreptitious^ 
publications of them, he judged it to be high time thj 
they should proceed from his own hand, rather thj 
come into public view under some very defective au 5 
erroneous form. 

jf They were originally designed for the initiation of 
youth into the study of Belles Lettres and of compo- 
sition. With the same intention they are now pub- 
lished; and, therefore, the form of Lectures, in which 
they were at first composed, is still retained. The 
author gives them to the world, neither as a work 
wholly original, nor as a compilation from the writings 
of others. On every subject contained in them, he has 
thought for himself. He consulted his own ideas and 
reflections ; and a great part of what will be found in 
these l^eptures is entirely his own. At the same time, 
he availed himself of the ideas and reflections of others, 
as far as he thought them proper to be adopted. To 
proceed in this manner was his duty as a public pro- 
fessor. It was incumbent on him, to convey to his 
pupils all the knowledge that could improve them ; 
to deliver not merely what was new, but what might 

• Biosjraphia Britannica. Article, Addison. 



. 1 PREFACE. 

be useful, from whatever quarter it came. He hopes, 
that to such -as are studying to cultivate their taste, to 
form their style, or to prepare themselves for public 
speaking or composition, his Lectures will afford a 
more comprehensive view of what relates to these 
subjects, than, as far as he knows, is to be received 
from any one book in our language. 

In order to render his work of greater service, he 
has generally referred to the books which he consulted, 
as far as he remembers them ; that the readers might 
be directed to any farther illustration which they afford. 
But, as such a length of time has elapsed since the 
irst composition of his Lectures, he may, perhaps, 
a.ve adopted the sentiments of some author into whose 
.vritings he had then looked, without now remembering 
whence he derived them. 

In the opinions which he has delivered concerning 
such a variety of authors, and of literary matters, as 
come under his consideration, he cannot expect that all 
his readers will concur with him. The subjects are of 
such a nature, as allow room for much diversity of 
taste and sentiment : and the author will respectfully 
submit to the judgment of the public. 

Retaining the simplicity of the lecturing style, as 
best fitted for conveying instruction, he has aimed, in 
his language, at no more than perspicuity. If, after 
the liberties which it was necessary for him to take, in 
criticising the style of the most eminent writers in our 
language, his own style shall bethought open to repre- 
hension, all that he can say, is, that his book will add 
one to the many proofs already afforded to the world, 
of its being much easier to give instruction, than to set 
example. 






Vlll 



Leot. XXVII 



XXVIII 

XXIX. 
XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

xxxin. 
xxxiv. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 
XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLU. 

XLI1I. 

XLIV. 



XLV. 

XLVI. 

XLVII. 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 



. Different Kinds of Public Speaking— Eloquence 
of Popular Assemblies— Extracts from Demos- 
thenes. 342 

Eloquence of the Bar — Analysis of Cicero's 

Oration for Cluentius 360 

Eloquence of the Pulpit 377 

Critical Examination of a Sermon of Bishop At- 

terbury's 394 

Conduct of a Discourse in all its Parts — Intro- 
duction — Division — Narration and Explication 412 
Conduct of a Discourse — The Argumentative 

Part — The Pathetic Part — The Peroration 427 

Pronunciation, or Delivery 441 

Means of improving in Eloquence 456 

Comparative Merit of the Ancients and the Mo- 
derns — Historical Writing 468 

Historical Writing 482 

Philosophical Writing — Dialogue — Epistolary 

Writing — Fictitious History 497 

Nature of Poetry — Its Origin and Progress — Ver- 
sification 510 

Pastoral Poetry — Lyric Poetry 525 

Didactic Poetry — Descriptive poetry 542 

The Poetry of the Hebrews 557 

Epic Poetry 571 

Homer's Iliad and Odyssey — Virgil's ^Eneid 585 

Lucan's Pharsalia — Tasso's Jerusalem — Camoens' 
Lusiad — Fenelon's Telemachus — Voltaire's 

Henriade — Milton's Paradise Lost 599 

Dramatic Poetry — Tragedy 615 

Tragedy — Greek — French — English Tragedy . 632 
Comedy — Greek and Roman — French — English 
Comedy 648 



CONTENTS. 



Paoe. 

Lect. I. Introduction „ 1 

II. Taste 10 

III. Criticism — Genius — Pleasures of Taste — Sublimity 

in Objects 23 

IV. The Sublime in Writing 36 

V. Beauty, and other Pleasures of Taste 51 

VI. Rise and Progress of Language ...ju?. 61 

VII. Rise and Progress of Language, and of Writing ..*« 74 

VIII. Structure of Language 87 

IX. Structure of Language — English Tongue ..ksZT. 100 

X. Style — Perspicuity and Precision 115 

XL Structure of Sentences 128 

XII. Structure of Sentences 142 

XIII. Structure of Sentences — Harmony 155 

XIV. Origin and Nature of Figurative Language 170 

XV. Metaphor 184 

XVI. Hyperbole — Personification — Apostrophe 199 — 

XVII. Comparison, Antithesis, Interrogation, Exclamation, and "■ — 

other Figures of Speech ,. ; 214 

XVIII. Figurative Language — General Characters of Style — 
Diffuse, Concise — Feeble, Nervous — Dry, Plain, 

Neat, Elegant, Flowery 227 

XIX. General Characters of Style — Simple, Affected, Vehe- 
ment — Directions for forming a proper Style 242 

XX. Critical Examination of the Style of Mr. Addison, in No. 

411 of the Spectator ,... 255 

XXI. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 412 of the Spec- 
tator 269 

XXII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 413 of the Spec- 
tator 280 

XXIII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 414 of the Spec- 

tator 290 

XXIV. Critical Examination of the Style in a Passage of Dean 

Swift's Writings 299 

XXV. Eloquence, or Public Speaking — History of Eloquence- 
Grecian Eloquence — Demosthenes 314 

XXVI. History of Eloquence continued — Roman Eloquence- 
Cicero— Modern Eloquence ..••• . 329 



2 LECTURE I. 

But, among nations in a civilized state, no art has been cul- 
tivated with more care, than that of language, style, and com- 
position. The attention paid to it may, indeed, be assumed as 
one mark of the progress of society towards its most improved 
period. For, according as society improves and flourishes, men 
acquire more influence over one another by means of reasoning 
and discourse ; and in proportion as that influence is felt to en- 
large, it must follow, as a natural consequence, that they will 
bestow more care upon the methods of expressing their concep- 
tions with propriety and eloquence. Hence we find, that, in all 
the polished nations of Europe, this study has been treated as 
highly important, and has possessed a considerable place in 
every plan of liberal education. 

Indeed, when the arts of speech and writing are mentioned, 
I am sensible that prejudices against them are apt to rise in the 
minds of many. A sort of art is immediately thought of, that 
is ostentatious and deceitful ; the minute and trifling study of 
words alone ; the pomp of expression ; the studied fallacies of 
rhetoric ; ornament substituted in the room of use. We need 
not wonder, that, under such imputations, all study of discourse 
as an art should have suffered in the opinion of men of under- 
standing ; and I am far from denying, that rhetoric and criticism 
have sometimes been so managed as to tend to the corruption, 
rather than to the improvement, of good taste and true elo- 
quence. But sure it is equally possible to apply the principles 
of reason and good sense to this art, as to any other that is cul- 
tivated among men. If the following Lectures have any merit, 
it will consist in an endeavour to substitute the application of 
these principles in the place of artificial and scholastic rhetoric ; 
in an endeavour to explode false ornament, to direct attention 
more towards substance than show, to recommend good sense 
as the foundation of all good composition, and simplicity as 
essential to all true ornament. 

When entering on the subject, I may be allowed, on this oc- 
casion, to suggest a few thoughts concerning the importance and 
advantages of such studies, and the rank they are entitled to 
possess in academical education.* I am under no temptation, 



* The author was the first who read Lectures on this subject in the University 
of Edinburgh. He began with reading them in a private character in the year 
1759. In the following year he was chosen Professor of Rhetoric by the magis- 
trates and Town-council of Edinburgh; and, in 1762, His Majesty was pleased 
to erect and endow a Profusion of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in that Univer- 
sity ; and the Author was appointed the first Regius Professor. 







LECTURES, 



ETC. ETC. 



I. 



INTRODUCTION. 



One of the most distinguished privileges which Proviaence 
has conferred upon mankind, is the power of communicating 
their thoughts to one another. Destitute of this power, reason 
would be a solitary, and, in some measure, an unavailing prin- 
ciple. Speech is the great instrument by which man becomes 
beneficial to man ; and it is to the intercourse and transmission 
of thought, by means of speech, that we are chiefly indebted for 
the improvement of thought itself. Small are the advances 
which a single unassisted individual can make towards perfec- 
ing any of his powers. What we call human reason, is not the 
effort or ability of one, so much as it is the result of the reason 
of many, arising from lights mutually communicated, in conse- 
quence of discourse and writing. 

It is obvious, then, that writing and discourse are objects 
entitled to the highest attention. Whether the influence of the 
speaker, or the entertainment of the hearer, be consulted ; whe- 
ther utility or pleasure be the principal aim in view ; we are 
prompted by the strongest motives, to study how we may com- 
municate our thoughts to one another with most advantage. 
Accordingly we find, that in almost every nation, as soon as lan- 
guage had extended itself beyond that scanty communication 
which was requisite for the supply of men's necessities, the im- 
provement of discourse began to attract regard. In the lan- 
guage even of rude uncultivated tribes, we can trace some atten- 
tion to the grace and force of those expressions which they 
used, when they sought to persuade or to affect. They were 
early sensible of a beauty in discourse, and endeavoured to give 
it certain decorations which experience had taught them it was 
capable of receiving, long before the study of those decorations 
was formed into a regular art. 




*ws 



INTRODUCTION, b 

or this purpose, of extolling their importance at the expense of 
any other department of science. On the contrary, the study 
of rhetoric and belles lettres supposes and requires a proper ac- 
quaintance with the rest of the liberal arts. It embraces them all 
within its circle, and recommends them to the highest regard. 
The first care of all such as wish either to write with reputation, 
or to speak in public so as to command attention, must be, to 
extend their knowledge ; to lay in a rich store of ideas relating 
to those subjects of which the occasions of life may call them to 
discourse or to write. Hence, among the ancients, it was a 
fundamental principle, and frequently inculcated, " Quod om- 
nibus disciplinis et artibus debet esse instructus orator :" 
that the orator ought to be an accomplished scholar, and con- 
versant in every part of learning. It is indeed impossible to 
contrive an art, and very pernicious it were if it could be con- 
trived, which should give the stamp of merit to any composition 
rich or splendid in expression, but barren or erroneous in 
thought. They are the wretched attempts towards an art of 
this kind which have so often disgraced oratory, and debased it 
below its true standard. The graces of composition have been 
employed to disguise or to supply the want of matter ; and the 
temporary applause of the ignorant has b, een courted, instead of 
the lasting approbation of the discerning. But such imposture 
can never maintain its ground long. Knowledge and science 
must furnish the materials that form the body and substance 
of any valuable composition. Rhetoric serves to add the 
polish ; and we know that none but firm and solid bodies can be 
polished well. 

Of those who peruse the following Lectures, some, in con 
sequence either of their profession, or of their prevailing incli- 
nation, may have the view of being employed in composition, 
or in public speaking. Others, without any prospect of this 
kind, may wish only to improve their taste with respect to writ- 
ing and discourse, and to acquire principles which will enable 
them to judge for themselves in that part of literature called the 
belles lettres. 

With respect to the former, such as may have occasion to 
communicate their sentiments to the public, it is abundantly 
clear that some preparation of study is requisite for the end 
which they have in view. To speak or to write perspicuously 
and agreeably, with purity, with grace and strength, are attain- 
ments of the utmost consequence to all who purpose, either by 
speech or writing, to address the public. For without being 

B 2 



4 LECTURE 1. 

master ol those attainment.', no man can do justice to his own 
conceptions ; but how rich soever he may be in knowledge and 
in good sense, will be able to avail himself less of those trea- 
sures, than such as possess not half his store, but who can dis- 
play what they possess with more propriety. Neither are these 
attainments of that kind for which we are indebted to nature 
merely. Nature has, indeed, conferred upon some a very 
favourable distinction in this respect, beyond others. But in 
these, as in most other talents she bestows, she has left much 
to be wrought cut by every man's own industry. So con- 
spicuous have been the effects of study and improvement in 
every part of eloquence ; such remarkable examples have ap- 
peared of persons surmounting, by their diligence, the disad- 
vantages of the most untoward nature ; that among the learned it 
has long been a contested, and remains still an undecided point, 
whether nature or art confer most towards excelling in writing 
and discourse. 

With respect to the manner in which art can most effectually 
furnish assistance for such a purpose, there may be diversity 
of opinions. I by no means pretend to say that mere rhetorical 
rules, how just soever, are sufficient to form an orator. Sup- 
posing natural genius to be favourable, more by a great deal 
will depend upon private application and study, than upon any 
system of instruction that is capable of being publicly com- 
municated. But at the same time, though rules and instruc- 
tions cannot do all that is requisite, they may, however, do 
much that is of real use. They cannot, it is true, inspire 
genius ; but they can direct and assist it. They cannot remedy 
barrenness ; but they may correct redundancy. They point out 
proper models for imitation. They bring into view the chief 
beauties that ought to be studied, and the principal faults that 
ought to be avoided ; and thereby tend to enlighten taste, and 
to lead genius from unnatural deviations, into its proper chan- 
nel. What would not avail for the production of great excel- 
lencies, may at least serve to prevent the commission of con- 
siderable errors. 

All that regards the study of eloquence and composition 
merits the higher attention upon this account, that it is inti- 
mately connected with the improvement of our intellectual 
powers. For I must be allowed to say, that when we are em- 
ployed, after a proper manner, in the study of composition, we 
are cultivating reason itself. True rhetoric and sound logic are 
very nearly allied. The study of arranging and expressing our 



INTRODUCTION. *> 

thoughts with propriety, teaches to think, as well as to speak, 
accurately. By putting our sentiments into words, we always 
conceive them more distinctly. Every one who has the slightest 
acquaintance with composition knows, that when he expresses 
himself ill on any subject, when his arrangement is loose, and 
his sentences become feeble, the defects of his style can, almost 
on every occasion, be traced back to his indistinct conception of 
the subject : so close is the connexion between thoughts, and the 
words in which they are clothed. 

The study of composition, important in itself at all times, has 
Required additional importance from the taste and manners of 
pie present age. It is an age wherein improvements, in every 
part of science, have been prosecuted with ardour. To all the 
liberal arts much attention has been paid ; and to none more 
than to the beauty of language, and the grace and elegance of 
every kind of writing. The public ear is become refined. It 
will not easily bear what is slovenly and incorrect. Every 
author must aspire to some merit in expression, as well as 
in sentiment, if he would not incur the danger of being neg- 
lected and despised. 

I will not deny that the love of minute elegance, and attention 
to inferior ornaments of composition, may at present have en- 
grossed too great a degree of the public regard. It is indeed 
my opinion, that we lean to this extreme ; often more careful of 
polished style, than of storing it with thought. Yet hence 
arises a new reason for the study of just and proper composi- 
tion. If it be requisite not to be deficient in elegance or orna- 
ment in times when they are in such high estimation, it is still 
more requisite to attain the power of distinguishing false orna- 
ment from true, in order to prevent our being carried away by 
that torrent of false and frivolous taste, which never fails, when 
it is prevalent, to sweep along with it the raw and the ignorant. 
.They who have never studied eloquence in its principles, nor have 
been trained to attend to the genuine and manly beauties of 
good writing, are always ready to be caught by the mere glare 
of language ; and when they come to speak in public, or to com- 
pose, have no other standard on which to form themselves, 
except what chances to be fashionable and popular, how cor- 
rupted soever, and erroneous, that may be. 

But, as there are many who have no such objects as either 
composition or public speaking in view, let us next consider 
what advantages may be derived by them from such studies 
as form the subject of these Lectures. To them, rhetoric La. 



LECTURE L 

not so much a practical art as a speculative science ; and the 
same instructions which assist others in composing, will assist 
them in discerning, and relishing, the beauties of composition. 
Whatever enables genius to execute well, will enable taste to 
criticise justly 

When we name criticising, prejudices may perhaps arise, 
of the same kind with those which I mentioned before with 
respect to rhetoric. As rhetoric has been sometimes thought to 
signify nothing more than the scholastic study of words, and 
phrases, and tropes, so criticism has been considered as merely 
the art of finding faults ; as the frigid application of certain 
technical terms, by means of which persons are taught to cavil 
and censure in a learned manner, But this is the criticism of 
pedants only. True criticism is* a liberal and humane art. It 
is the offspring of good sense and refined taste. It aims at 
acquiring a just discernment of the real merit of authors. It 
promotes a lively relish of their beauties, while it preserves us 
from that blind and implicit veneration which would confound 
their beauties and faults in our esteem. It teaches us, in a 
word, to admire and to blame with judgment, and not to follow 
the crowd blindly. 

In an age when works of genius and literature are so fre- 
quently the subjects of discourse, when every one erects him- 
self into a judge, and when we can hardly mingle in polite 
society without bearing some share in such discussions ; studies 
of this kind, it is not to be doubted, will appear to derive part 
of their importance from the use to which they may be applied 
in furnishing materials for those fashionable topics of dis* 
course, and thereby enabling us to support a proper rank in 
social life. 

But I should be sorry if we could not rest the merit of such 
studies on somewhat of solid and intrinsical use, independent of 
appearance and show. The exercise of taste and of sound 
criticism, is in truth one of the most improving employments of 
the understanding. To apply the principles of good sense to 
composition and discourse ; to examine what is beautiful, and 
why it is so ; to employ ourselves in distinguishing accurately 
between the specious and the solid, between affected and natural 
ornament, must certainly improve us not a little in the most 
valuable part of all philosophy, the philosophy of human nature.' 
For such disquisitions are very intimately connected with the 
knowledge of ourselves. They necessarily lead us to reflect on 
the operations of the imagination, and the movements of the 



INTRODUCTION. 7 

heart ; and increase our acquaintance with some of the most re- 
fined feelings which belong to our frame. 

Logical and ethical disquisitions move in a higher sphere, 
and are conversant with objects of a more severe kind : the 
progress of the understanding in its search after knowledge, and 
the direction of the will in the proper pursuit of good. They 
point out to man the improvement of his nature as an intelli- 
gent being ; and his duties as the subject of moral obligation. 
Belles lettres and criticism chiefly consider him as a being 
endowed with those powers of taste and imagination, which 
were intended to embellish his mind, and to supply him with 
rational and useful entertainment. They open a field of inves- 
tigation peculiar to themselves. All that relates to beauty, 
harmony, grandeur, and elegance ; all that can soothe the mind, 
gratify the fancy, or move the affections, belongs to their pro- 
vince. They present human nature under a different aspect 
from that which it assumes when viewed by other sciences. 
They bring to light various springs of action, which, without 
their aid, might have passed unobserved ; and which, though of 
a delicate nature, frequently exert a powerful influence on seve- 
ral departments of human life. 

Such studies have also this peculiar advantage, that they 
exercise our reason without fatiguing it. They lead to inqui- 
ries acute, but not painful ; profound, but not dry nor abstruse 
They strew flowers in the path of science ; and while they keep 
the mind bent, in some degree, and active, they relieve it, at 
the same time, from that more toilsome labour to which it must 
submit in the acquisition of necessary erudition, or the inves- 
tigation of abstract truth. 

The cultivation of taste is further recommended by the 
happy effects which it naturally tends to produce on human 
life. The most busy man, in the most active sphere, cannot be 
always occupied by business. Men of serious professions can- 
not always be on the stretch of serious thought. Neither can 
the most gay and flourishing situations of fortune afford any 
man the power of filling all his hours with pleasure. Life must 
always languish in the hands of the idle. It will frequently 
languish even in the hands of the busy, if they have not some 
employment subsidiary to that which forms their main pursuit 
How then shall these vacant spaces, those unemployed intervals, 
which, more or less, occur in the life of every one, be filled 
up ? How can we contrive to dispose of them in any way 



8 LECTURE I. 

that shall be more agreeable in itself, or more consonant to the 
dignity of the human mind, than in the entertainments of taste, 
and the study of polite literature ? He who is so happy as to 
have acquired a relish for these, has always at hand an innocent 
and irreproachable amusement for his leisure hours, to save 
him from the danger of many a pernicious passion. He is not in 
hazard of being a burden to himself. He is not obliged to fly 
to low company, or to court the riot of loose pleasures, in order 
to cure the tediousness of existence. 

Providence seems plainly to have pointed out this useful 
purpose to which the pleasures of taste may be applied, by in- 
terposing them in a middle station between the pleasures of 
sense and those of pure intellect. We were not designed to 
grovel always among objects so low as the former; nor are we 
capable of dwelling constantly in so high a region as the latter. 
The pleasures of taste refresh the mind after the toils of the 
intellect, and the labours of abstract study ; and they gradually 
raise it above the attachments of sense, and prepare it for the 
enjoyments of virtue. 

So consonant is this to experience, that, in the education 
of youth, no object has in every age appeared more important 
to wise men, than to tincture them early with a relish for the 
entertainments of taste. The transition is commonly made with 
ease from these to the discharge of the higher and more important 
duties of life. Good hopes may be entertained of those whose' 
minds have this liberal and elegant turn. It is favourable to 
many virtues. Whereas, to be entirely devoid of relish for 
eloquence, poetry, or any of the fine arts, is justly construed to 
be an unpromising symptom of youth ; and raises suspicions of 
their being prone to low gratifications, or destined to drudge in 
the more vulgar and illiberal pursuits of life. 

There are indeed few good dispositions of any kind with 
which the improvement of taste is not more or less connected. 
A cultivated taste increases sensibility to all the tender and 
humane passions, by giving them frequent exercise ; while it 
tends to weaken the more violent and fierce emotions. 

Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes, 

Emollit mores, nee sinit esse feros. * 

The elevated sentiments and high examples which poetry, elo- 
quence, and history, are often bringing under our view, natu 

* These polish'd arts liave hitmaniz'd mankind, 
Soften'd the rude, and cahn'd the boist'rous mind. 



INTRODUCTION. 

rally tend to nourish in our minds public spirit, the love of glory, 
contempt of external fortune, and the admiration of what is 
truly illustrious and great. 

I will not go so far as to say that the improvement of taste 
and of virtue is the same ; or that they may always be expected 
to co-exist in an equal degree. More powerful correctives than 
taste can apply, are necessary for reforming the corrupt 
propensities which too frequently prevail among mankind. 
Elegant speculations are sometimes found to float on the surface 
of the mind, while bad passions possess the interior regions of 
the heart. At the same time, this cannot but be admitted, that 
the exercise of taste is, in its native tendency, moral and puri- 
fying. From reading the most admired productions of genius, 
whether in poetry or prose, almost every one rises with some 
good impressions left on his mind : and though these may not 
always be durable, they are at least to be ranked among the 
means of disposing the heart to virtue. One thing is certain, and 
I shall hereafter have occasion to illustrate it more fully, that, 
without possessing the virtuous affections in a strong degree, no 
man can attain eminence in the sublime parts of eloquence. He 
must feel what a good man feels, if he expects greatly to move 
or to interest mankind. They are the ardent sentiments of 
honour, virtue, magnanimity, and public spirit, that only can 
kindle that fire of genius, and call up into the mind those high 
ideas, which attract the admiration of ages ; and if this spirit 
be necessary to produce the most distinguished efforts of elo- 
quence, it must be necessary also to our relishing them with 
proper taste and feeling. 

On these general topics I shall dwell no longer ; but proceed 
directly to the consideration of the subjects which are to em- 
ploy the following Lectures. They divide themselves into five 
parts. First, some introductory dissertations on the Nature of 
Taste, and upon the Sources of its Pleasures : secondly, the 
consideration of Language : thirdly, of Style : fourthly, of 
Eloquence properly so called, or Public Speaking in its dif- 
ferent kinds : lastly, a critical examination of the most distin- 
guished Species of Composition, both in prose and verse. 



10 



LECTURE II. 

TASTE. 

The nature of the present undertaking leads me to be- 
gin with some inquiries concerning taste, as it is this faculty 
which is always appealed to in disquisitions concerning the 
merit of discourse and writing. 

There are few subjects on which men talk more loosely and 
indistinctly than on taste ; few which it is more difficult to ex- 
plain with precision ; and none which in this course of Lec- 
tures will appear more dry or abstract. What I have to say 
on the subject shall be in the following order. I shall first 
explain the nature of taste as a power or faculty in the human 
mind. I shall next consider how far it is an improveable 
faculty. I shall show the sources of its improvement, and the 
characters of taste in its most perfect state. I shall then ex- 
amine the various fluctuations to which it is liable, and inquire 
whether there be any standard to which we can bring the 
different tastes of men, in order to distinguish the corrupted 
from the true. 

Taste may be defined, " The power of receiving pleasure 
from the beauties of nature and of art." The first question 
that occurs concerning it is, whether it is to be considered as 
an internal sense, or as an exertion of reason ? Reason is a 
very general term ; but if we understand by it that power of the 
mind which in speculative matters discovers truth, and in prac- 
tical matters judges of the fitness of means to an end, I appre- 
hend the question may be easily answered. For nothing can 
be more clear, than that taste is not resolvable into any such 
operation of reason. It is not merely through a discovery of 
the understanding, or a deduction of argument, that the mind 
receives pleasure from a beautiful prospect or a fine poem. 
Such objects often strike us intuitively, and make a strong 
impression, when we are unable to assign the reasons of our 
being pleased. They sometimes strike in the same manner 
the philosopher and the peasant ; the boy and the man. Hence 
the faculty by which we relish such beauties, seems more nearly 
allied to a feeling of sense, than to a process of the understand- 
ing ; and accordingly, from an external sense it has borrowed 
its name ; that sense by which we receive and distinguish the 
pleasures of food having, in several languages, given rise to the 



INTRODUCTION. 11 

word ' taste* in the metaphorical meaning under which we now 
consider it. However, as, in all subjects which regard the 
operations of the mind, the inaccurate use of words is to be 
carefully avoided, it must not be inferred, from what I have 
said, that reason is entirely excluded from the exertions of taste. 
Though taste, beyond doubt, be ultimately founded on a cer- 
tain natural and instinctive sensibility to beauty, yet reason, as 
I shall show hereafter, assists taste in many of its operations, 
and serves to enlarge its power.* 

Taste, in the sense in which I have explained it, is a faculty 
common in some degree to all men. Nothing that belongs to 
human nature is more general than the relish of beauty of one 
kind or other ; of what is orderly, proportioned, grand, har- 
monious, new, or sprightly. In children, the rudiments of 
taste discover themselves very early in a thousand instances , 
in their fondness for regular bodies, their admiration of picture," 
and statues, and imitations of all kinds ; and their strong- 
attachment to whatever is new or marvellous. The most igno 
rant peasants are delighted with ballads and tales, and are 
struck with the beautiful appearance of nature in the earth anil 
heavens. Even in the deserts of America, where human naturo 
shows itself in its most uncultivated state, the savages havi 
their ornaments of dress, their war and their death songs, thei\ 
harangues and their orators. We must therefore conclude the 
principles of taste to be deeply founded in the human mind. 
It is no less essential to man to have some discernment of 
beauty, than it is to possess the attributes of reason and of 
speech.-]- 

* See Dr. Gerrard's Essay on Taste. — D'Alembert's Reflections on the Use 
and Abuse of Philosophy in Matters which relate to Taste. — Reflections Cri- 
tiques sur la Poesie et sur la Peinture, tome ii. ch. 22 — 31. — Elements of Criti- 
cism, ch. 25. — Mr. Hume's Essay on the Standard of Taste. — Introduction to 
the Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful. 

t On the subject of Taste, considered as a power or faculty of the mind, 
much less is to be found among' the ancient, than among the modern rhetorical 
and critical writers. The following remarkable passage in Cicero serves however 
to show that his ideas on this subject agree perfectly with what has been said 
above. He is speaking of the beauties of style and numbers. " Illud auteni 
nequis admiretur qnonam modo haec vulgus imperitorum in audiendo, notet ; cum 
in omni genere, turn in hoc ipso, magna qu&edam est vis, incredibilisque naturae. 
Omnes enim tacito quodam sensu, sine ulla arte aut ratione, quae sint in artibus 
ac rationibus recta et prava dijudicant: idque cum faciunt in picturis, et in 
signis, et in aliis operibus, ad quorum intelligentiam a natura minus liabent 
instrument!, turn multo ostendunt magis in verbornm, numerorum, vocumque 
judicio : quod ea sunt in communibus infixa sensibus ; neque earum rerum 
qnenquam funditus natura voluit esse expertem." Cic. de Orat. lib. iii. cap. 50. 
edit. Gruteri. Quintilian seems to include taste, (for which, in the sense 



12 LECTURE II. 

But although none be wholly devoid of this faculty, yet tne 
degrees in which it is possessed are widely different. In some 
men only the feeble glimmerings of taste appear ; the beauties 
which they relish are of the coarsest kind ; and of these they 
have but a weak and confused impression : while, in others, 
taste rises to an acute discernment, and a lively enjoyment of 
the most refined beauties. In general, we may observe, that in 
the powers and pleasures of taste, there is a more remarkable 
inequality among men, than is usually found in point of common 
sense, reason, and judgment. The constitution of our nature 
in this, as in all other respects, discovers admirable wisdom. 
In the distribution of those talents which are necessary for 
man's well-being, Nature hath made less distinction among her 
children. But in the distribution of those which belong only 
to the ornamental part of life, she hath bestowed her favours 
with more frugality. She hath both sown the seeds more 
sparingly, and rendered a higher culture requisite for bringing 
them to perfection. 

This inequality of taste among men is owing, without doubt, 
in part, to the different frame of their natures ; to nicer organs, 
and finer internal powers, with which some are endowed beyond 
others. But, if it be owing in part to nature, it is owing to 
education and culture still more. The illustration of this leads 
to my next remark on this subject, that taste is a most im- 
proveable faculty, if there be any such in human nature ; a re- 
mark which gives great encouragement to such a course of study 
as we are now proposing to pursue. Of the truth of this asser- 
tion we may easily be convinced, by only reflecting on that im- 
mense superiority which education and improvement give to 
civilized, above barbarous nations, in refinement of taste ; and on 
the superiority which they give in the same nation to those who 
have studied the liberal arts, above the rude and untaught vulgar. 
The difference is so great, that there is perhaps no one particu- 
lar in which these two classes of men are so far removed from 
each other, as in respect of the powers and the pleasures of 
taste ; and assuredly for this difference no other general cause 
can be assigned, but culture and education. — I shall now pro- 

which we now give to that word, the ancients appear to have had no distinct name,) 
under what he calls 'judicium.' " Locus de judicio, qui mea quidem opinione 
adeo partibus hujus operis omnibus connectus ac mistus est, ut ne a sententiis 
quidem ant verbis saltern singulis possit separari, ncc magis arte traditur quam 

gustus aut odor. Ut contraria vitemus et communia, ne quid in eloquendo 

tor-upturn obscurumque sit, ref'eratur oportet ad sensus qui non docentur." 
Institut. lib. vi. cap. 3. edit. Obrechti. 



TASTE. 13 

ceed to show what the means are, by which taste becomes*so 
remarkably susceptible of cultivation and progress. 

Reflect first upon that great law of our nature, that exercise 
is the chief source of improvement in all our faculties. This 
holds both in our bodily and in our mental powers. It holds 
even in our external senses ; although these be less the subject 
of cultivation than any of our other faculties. We see how 
acute the senses become in persons whose trade or business 
leads to nice exertions of them. Touch, for instance, becomes 
infinitely more exquisite in men whose employment requires 
them to examine the polish of bodies, than it is in others. 
They who deal in microscopical observations, or are accustomed 
to engrave on precious stones, acquire surprising accuracy of 
sight in discerning the minutest objects ; and practice in attend- 
ing to different flavours and tastes of liquors, wonderfully im- 
proves the power of distinguishing them, and of tracing their 
composition. Placing internal taste therefore on the footing of 
a simple sense, it cannot be doubted that frequent exercise, and 
curious attention to its proper objects, must greatly heighten its 
power. Of this we have one clear proof in that part of taste, 
which is called an ear for music. Experience every day shows 
that nothing is more improveable. Only the simplest and plainest 
compositions are relished at first : use and practice extend 
our pleasure, teach us to relish finer melody, and by degrees 
enable us to enter into the intricate and compounded pleasures 
of harmony. So an eye for the beauties of painting is never 
all at once acquired. It is gradually formed by being con- 
versant among pictures, and studying the works of the best 
masters. 

Precisely in the same manner, with respect to the beauty of 
composition and discourse, attention to the most approved 
models, study of the best authors, comparisons of lower and 
higher degrees of the same beauties, operate towards the re- 
finement of taste. When one is only beginning his acquaint- 
ance with works of genius, the sentiment which attends them 
is obscure and confused. He cannot point out the several 
excellencies or blemishes of a performance which he peruses ; 
he is at a loss on what to rest his judgment ; all that can be 
expected is, that he should tell in general whether he be 
pleased or not. But allow him more experience in works of 
this kind, and his taste becomes by degrees more exact and 
enlightened. He begins to perceive not only the character of 
the whole, but the beauties and defects of each part ; and is 






14 LECTURE H. 

able to describe the peculiar qualifies which he praises or 
blames. The mist is dissipated which seemed formerly to 
hang over the object ; and he can at length pronounce firmly, 
and without hesitation, concerning it. Thus, in taste, consi- 
dered as mere sensibility, exercise opens a great source of 
improvement. 

But although taste be ultimately founded on sensibility, it 
must not be considered as instinctive sensibility alone. Reason 
and good sense, as I before hinted, have so extensive an influ- 
ence on all the operations and decisions of taste, that a thorough 
good taste may well be considered as a power compounded of 
natural sensibility to beauty, and of improved understanding. 
In order to be satisfied of this, let us observe, that the greater 
part of the productions of genius are no other than imitations of 
nature ; representations of the characters, actions, or manners of 
men. The pleasure we receive from such imitations or repre- 
sentations is founded on mere taste ; but to judge whether they 
be properly executed, belongs to the understanding, which 
compares the copy with the original. 

In reading, for instance, such a poem as the iEneid, a great 
part of our pleasure arises from the plan or story being well 
conducted, and all the parts joined together with probability and 
due connexion ; from the characters being taken from nature, 
the sentiments being suited to the characters, and the style to 
the sentiments. The pleasure which arises from a poem so 
conducted, is felt or enjoyed by taste as an internal sense : but 
the discovery of this conduct in the poem is owing to reason ; 
and the more that reason enables us to discover such propriety 
in the conduct, the greater will be our pleasure. We are 
pleased, through our natural sense of beauty. Reason shows us 
why and upon what grounds we are pleased. Wherever, in 
works of taste, any resemblance to nature is aimed at ; wherever 
there is any reference of parts to a whole, or of means to an 
end, as there is indeed in almost every writing and discourse ; 
there the understanding must always have a great part to 
act. 

Here then is a wide field for reason's exerting its powers in 
relation to the objects of taste, particularly with respect to 
composition, and works of genius ; and hence arises a second 
and a very considerable source of the improvement of taste, 
from the application of reason and good sense to such produc- 
tions of genius. Spurious beauties, such as unnatural charac- 
ters, forced sentiments, affected style, may please for a little ; 



TASTE. 15 

but they please only because their opposition to nature and to 
good sense has not been examined or attended to. Once, 
show how nature might have been more justly imitated or 
represented ; how the writer might have managed his subject 
to greater advantage ; the illusion will presently be dissipated, 
and these false beauties will please no more. 

From these two sources then, first, the frequent exercise of 
taste, and next, the application of good sense and reason to the 
objects of taste, taste, as a power of the mind, receives its 
improvement. In its perfect state it is undoubtedly the result 
both of nature and of art. It supposes our natural sense of 
beauty to be refined by frequent attention to the most beautiful 
objects, and at the same time to be guided and improved by the 
light of the understanding. 

I must be allowed to add, that as a sound head, so likewise 
a good heart, is a very material requisite to just taste. The 
moral beauties are not only in themselves superior to all others, 
but they exert an influence, either more near or more remote, 
on a great variety of other objects of taste. Wherever the af- 
fections, characters, or actions of men, are concerned, (and 
these certainly afford the noblest subjects to genius,) there can 
be neither any just or affecting description of them, nor any 
thorough feeling of the beauty of that description, without our 
possessing the virtuous affections. He whose heart is indelicate 
or hard, he who has no admiration of what is truly noble or 
praiseworthy, nor the proper sympathetic sense of what is soft 
and tender, must have a very imperfect relish of the highest 
beauties of eloquence and poetry. 

The characters of taste, when brought to its most improved 
state, are all reducible to two — delicacy and correctness. 

Delicacy of taste respects principally the perfection of that 
natural sensibility on which taste is founded. It implies those 
finer organs or powers which enable us to discover beauties that 
lie hid from a vulgar eye. One may have strong sensibility, 
and yet be deficient in delicate taste. He may be deeply im- 
pressed by such beauties as he perceives ; but he perceives only 
what is in some degree coarse, what is bold and palpable; 
while chaster and simpler ornaments escape his notice. In 
this state taste generally exists among rude and unrefined 
nations. But a person of delicate taste both feels strongly and 
feels accurately. He sees distinctions and differences where 
others see none ; the most latent beauty does not escape him, 
and he is sensible of the smallest blemish. Delicacy of tasto 



16 LECTURE II. 

is judged of by the same marks that we use in judging of the 
delicacy of an external sense. As the goodness of the palate is 
not tried by strong flavours, but by a mixture of ingredients, 
where, notwithstanding the confusion, we remain sensible of 
each ; in like manner delicacy of internal taste appears, by a 
quick and lively sensibility to its finest, most compounded, or 
most latent objects. 

Correctness of taste respects chiefly the improvement which 
that faculty receives through its connexion with the under- 
standing. A man of correct taste is one who is never im- 
posed on by counterfeit beauties ; who carries always in his 
mind that standard of good sense which he employs in judging 
of every thing. He estimates with propriety the comparative 
merit of the several beauties which he meets with in any work 
of genius ; refers them to their proper classes ; assigns the 
principles, as far as they can be traced, whence their power of 
pleasing flows ; and is pleased himself precisely in that degree 
in which he ought, and no more. 

It is true that these two qualities of taste, delicacy and 
correctness, mutually imply each other. No taste can be ex- 
quisitely delicate without being correct ; nor can be thoroughly 
correct without being delicate. But still a predominancy of 
one or other quality in the mixture is often visible. The power 
of delicacy is chiefly seen in discerning the true merit of a 
work ; the power of correctness, in rejecting false pretensions 
to merit. Delicacy leans more to feeling ; correctness more to 
reason and judgment. The former is more the gift of nature ; 
the latter, more the product of culture and art. Among the 
ancient critics, Longinus possessed most delicacy; Aristotle 
most correctness. Among the moderns, Mr. Addison is a high 
example of delicate taste ; Dean Swift, had he written on the 
subject of criticism, would perhaps have afforded the example of 
a correct one. 

Having viewed taste in its most improved and perfect state, 
I come next to consider its deviations from that state ; the fluc- 
tuations and changes to which it is liable, and to inquire whe- 
ther, in the midst of these, there be any means of distinguishing 
a true from a corrupted taste. This brings us to the most 
difficult part of our task. For it must be acknowledged, that 
no principle of the human mind is, in its operations, more 
fluctuating and capricious than taste. Its variations have been 
so great and frequent, as to create a suspicion with some, of its 
being merely arbitrary ; grounded on no foundation, ascertain- 



TASTE. 11 

able by no standard, but wholly dependent on changing fancy ; 
the consequence of which would be, that all studies or regular 
inquiries concerning the objects of taste were vain. In archi- 
tecture, the Grecian models were long esteemed the most per- 
fect. In succeeding ages, the Gothic architecture alone pre T 
vailed, and afterwards the Grecian taste revived in all its vigour, 
and engrossed the public admiration. In eloquence and poetry, 
the Asiatics at no time relished any thing but what was full of 
ornament, and splendid in a degree that we should denominate 
gaudy : whilst the Greeks admired only chaste and simple 
beauties, and despised the Asiatic ostentation. In our own 
country, how many writings that were greatly extolled two or 
three centuries ago, are now fallen into entire disrepute and 
oblivion ! Without going back to remote instances, how very 
different is the taste of poetry which prevails in Great Britain 
now, from what prevailed there no longer ago than the reign of 
king Charles II., which the authors too of that time deemed an 
Augustan age ; when nothing was in vogue but an affected bril- 
liancy of wit ; when the simple majesty of Milton was over- 
looked, and Paradise Lost almost entirely unknown ; when 
Cowley's laboured and unnatural conceits were admired as the 
very quintessence of genius ; Waller's gay sprightliness was 
mistaken for the tender spirit of love poetry ; and such writers 
as Suckling and Etheridge were held in esteem for dramatic 
composition. 

The question is, what conclusion we are to form from such 
instances as these ? Is there any thing that can be called a 
standard of taste, by appealing to which we may distinguish 
between a good and a bad taste ? Or, is there in truth no such 
distinction ; and are we to hold that, according to the proverb, 
there is no disputing of tastes : but that whatever pleases is 
right, for that reason that it does please ? This is the question, 
and a very nice and subtle one it is, which we are now to 
discuss. 

I begin by observing, that if there be no such thing as any 
standard of taste, this consequence must immediately follow, 
that all tastes are equally good ; a position which, though it 
may pass unnoticed in slight matters, and when we speak of 
the lesser differences among the tastes of men, yet when we 
apply it to the extremes, presently shows its absurdity. For is 
there any one who will seriously maintain that the taste of a 
Hottentot or a Laplander is as delicate and as correct as that 

c 



18 LECTURE II. 

of a Longinus or an Addison ? or, that he can be charged with 
no defect or incapacity who thinks a common news-writer as 
excellent an historian as Tacitus ? As it would be held down- 
right extravagance to talk in this manner, we are led unavoid- 
ably to this conclusion, that there is some foundation for the 
preference of one man's taste to that of another ; or that there 
is a good and a bad, a right and a wrong in taste, as in other 
things. 

But, to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is necessary to 
observe next, that the diversity of tastes which prevails among 
mankind, does not in every case infer corruption of taste, or 
oblige us to seek for some standard in order to determine who 
are in the right. The tastes of men may differ very consider- 
ably as to their object, and yet none of them be wrong. One 
man relishes poetry most ; another takes pleasure in nothing 
but history. One prefers comedy ; another, tragedy. One 
admires the simple ; another the ornamented style. The young 
are amused with gay and sprightly compositions. The elderly 
are more entertained with those of a graver cast. Some na- 
tions delight in bold pictures of manners, and strong represent- 
ations of passion. Others incline to more correct and regular 
elegance both in description and sentiment. Though all differ, 
yet all pitch upon some one beauty which peculiarly suits their 
turn of mind ; and therefore no one has a title to condemn the 
rest. It is not in matters of taste, as in questions of mere rea- 
son, where there is but one conclusion that can be true, and all 
the rest are erroneous. Truth, which is the object of reason, 
is one ; beauty, which is the object of taste, is manifold. Taste 
therefore admits of latitude and diversity of objects, in sufficient 
consistency with goodness or justness of taste. 

But then, to explain this matter thoroughly, I must observe 
further, that this admissible diversity of tastes can only have 
place where the objects of taste are different. Where it is 
with respect to the same object that men disagree, when one 
condemns that as ugly, which another admires as highly beauti- 
ful ; then it is no longer diversity, but direct opposition of taste 
that takes place ; and therefore one must be in the right and 
another in the wrong, unless that absurd paradox were allowed 
to hold, that all tastes are equally good and true. One man 
prefers Virgil to Homer. Suppose that I, on the other hand, 
admire Homer more than Virgil, I have as yet no reason to say 
that our tastes are contradictory. The other person is more 
struck with the elegance and tenderness which are the charac- 



TASTE. 10 

teristics of Virgil : I, with the simplicity and fire of Homer. As 
long as neither of us deny that both Homer and Virgil have 
great beauties, our difference falls within the compass of that 
diversity of tastes, which I have shown to be natural and allow- 
able. But if the other man shall assert that Homer has no 
beauties whatever ; that he holds him to be a dull and spiritless 
writer, and that he would as soon peruse any old legend of 
knight-errantry as the Iliad ; then I exclaim, that my antagonist 
either is void of all taste, or that his taste is corrupted in a 
miserable degree ; and I appeal to whatever I think the standard 
of taste, to show him that he is in the wrong. 

What that standard is, to which, in such opposition of 
tastes, we are obliged to have recourse, remains to be traced. 
A standard properly signifies that which is of such undoubted 
authority as to be the test of other things of the same kind. 
Thus a standard weight, or measure, is that which is appointed 
by law to regulate all other measures and weights. Thus the 
court is said to be the standard of good breeding; and the 
Scripture of theological truth. 

When we say that nature is the standard of taste, we lay 
down a principle very true and just, as far as it can be applied. 
There is no doubt, that in all cases where an imitation is in- 
tended of some object that exists in nature, as in representing 
human characters or actions, conformity to nature affords a 
full and distinct criterion of what is truly beautiful. Reason 
hath in such cases full scope for exerting its authority, for 
approving or condemning, by comparing the copy with the 
original. But there are innumerable cases in which this rule 
cannot be at all applied; and conformity to nature is an ex- 
pression frequently used, without any distinct or determinate 
meaning. We must therefore search for somewhat that can 
be rendered more clear and precise, to be the standard of 
taste. 

Taste, as I before explained it, is ultimately founded on 
an internal sense of beauty, which is natural to men, and 
which, in its application to particular objects, is capable of 
being guided and enlightened by reason. Now, were there 
any one person who possessed in full perfection all the powers 
of human nature, whose internal senses were in every instance 
exquisite and just, and whose reason was unerring and sure, 
the determination of such a person concerning beauty would, 
beyond doubt, be a perfect standard for the taste of all others. 
Wherever their taste differed from his, it could be imputed only 

c 2 



20 LECTURE II. 

to some imperfection in their natural powers. But a« there is 
no such living standard, no one person to whom all mankind 
will allow such submission to be due, what is there of sufficient 
authority to be the standard of the various and opposite tastes 
of men ? Most certainly there is nothing but the taste, as far as 
it can be gathered, of human nature. That which men concur 
the most in admiring, must be held to be beautiful. His taste 
must be esteemed just and true, which coincides with the 
general sentiments of men. In this standard we must rest. 
To the sense of mankind the ultimate appeal must ever lie, in all 
works of taste. If any one should maintain that sugar was 
bitter and tobacco was sweet, no reasonings could avail to 
prove it. The taste of such a person would infallibly be held 
to be diseased, merely because it differed so widely from the 
taste of the species to which he belongs. In like manner, with 
regard to the objects of sentiment or internal taste, the com- 
mon feelings of men carry the same authority, and have a title 
to regulate the taste of every individual. 

But have we then, it will be said, no other criterion of what 
is beautiful, than the approbation of the majority ? Must we 
collect the voices of others, before we form any judgment for 
ourselves, of what deserves applause in eloquence or poetry ? 
By no means ; there are principles of reason and sound judg- 
ment which can be applied to matters of taste as well as to the 
subjects of science and philosophy. He who admires or cen- 
sures any work of genius, is always ready, if his taste be in any 
degree improved, to assign some reasons for his decision. He 
appeals to principles, and points out the grounds on which he 
proceeds. Taste is a sort of compound power, in which the 
light of the understanding always mingles more or less, with 
the feelings of sentiment. 

But, though reason can carry us a certain length in judging 
concerning works of taste, it is not to be forgotten that the 
ultimate conclusions to which our reasonings lead, refer at last 
to sense and perception. We may speculate and argue con- 
cerning propriety of conduct in a tragedy, or an epic poem. 
Just reasonings on the subject will correct the caprice of unen- 
lightened taste, and establish principles for judging of what 
deserves praise. But, at the same time, these reasonings ap- 
peal always, in the last resort, to feeling. The foundation upon 
which they rest, is what has been found from experience to 
please mankind universally. Upon this ground we prefer a 



TASTE. 21 

simple and natural, to an artificial and affected style ; a regular 
and well-connected story, to loose and scattered narratives ; a 
catastrophe which is tender and pathetic, to one which leaves 
us unmoved. It is from consulting our own imagination and 
heart, and from attending to the feelings of others, that any 
principles are formed which acquire authority in matters of 
taste.* 

When we refer to the concurring sentiments of men as the 
ultimate test of what is to be accounted beautiful in the arts, 
this is to be always understood of men placed in such situations 
as are favourable to the proper exertions o.f taste. Every one 
must perceive that among rude and uncivilized nations, and 
during the ages of ignorance and darkness, any loose notions 
that are entertained concerning such subjects carry no autho- 
rity. In those states of society, taste has no materials on 
which to operate. It is either totally suppressed, or appears in 
its lowest and most imperfect form. We refer to the sentiments 
of mankind in polished and flourishing nations ; when arts are 
cultivated and manners refined; when works of genius are 
subjected to free discussion, and taste is improved by science 
and philosophy. 

Even among nations, at such a period of society, I admit, 
that accidental causes may occasionally warp the proper opera- 
tions of taste : sometimes the state of religion, sometimes the 
form of government, may for a while pervert it ; a licentious 
court may introduce a taste for false ornaments, and dissolute 
writings. The usage of one admired genius may procure ap- 
probation for his faults, and even render them fashionable. 
Sometimes envy may have power to bear down, for a little, pro- 
ductions of great merit ; while popular humour, or party spirit, 
may, at other times, exalt to a high, though short-lived, reputa- 

* The difference between the authors who found the standard of taste upon 
the common feelings of human nature ascertained by general approbation, and 
those who found it upon established principles which can be ascertained by 
reason, is more an apparent than a real difference. Like many other literary 
controversies, it turns chiefly on modes of expression. For they who lay the 
greatest stress on sentiment and feeling, make no scruple of applying argument 
and reason to matters of taste. They appeal, like other writers, to established 
principles, in judging of the excellencies of eloquence or poetry ; and plainly 
show, that the general approbation to which they ultimately recur, is an appro- 
bation resulting from discussion as well as from sentiment. They, on the other 
hand, who, in order to vindicate taste from any suspicion of being arbitrary, 
maintain that it is ascertainable by the standard of reason, admit nevertheless, 
that what pleases universally, must on that account be held to be truly beau- 
tiful ; and that no rules or conclusions concerning objects of taste, can have 
any just authority, if they be found to contradict the general sentiments of men, 



M LECTURE II. 

tion, what little deserved it. But though such casual circum- 
stances give the appearance of caprice to the judgments of 
taste, that appearance is easily corrected. In the course of 
time, the genuine taste of human nature never fails to disclose 
itself, and to gain the ascendant over any fantastic and cor- 
rupted modes of taste which may chance to have been intro- 
duced. These may have currency for a while, and mislead 
superficial judges ; but being subjected to examination, by de- 
grees they pass away; while that alone remains which is 
founded on sound reason, and the native feelings of men. 

I by no means pretend, that there is any standard of taste, 
to which, in every particular instance, we can resort for clear 
and immediate determination. Where, indeed, is such a stan- 
dard to be found for deciding any of those great controversies 
in reason and philosophy, which perpetually divide mankind ? 
In the present case, there was plainly no occasion for any such 
strict and absolute provision to be made. In order to judge of 
what is morally good or evil, of what man ought, or ought not 
in duty to do, it was fit that the means of clear and precise 
determination should be afforded us. But to ascertain in every 
case with the utmost exactness what is beautifid or elegant, was 
not at all necessary to the happiness of man. And therefore 
some diversity in feeling was here allowed to take place ; and 
room was left for discussion and debate, concerning the degree 
of approbation to winch any work of genius is entitled. 

The conclusion, which it is sufficient for us to rest upon, is, 
that taste is far from being an arbitrary principle, which is sub- 
ject to the fancy of every individual, and which admits of no 
criterion for determining whether it be false or true. Its foun- 
dation is the same in all human minds. It is built upon senti- 
ments and perceptions which belong to our nature ; and which, 
in general, operate with the same uniformity as our other intel- 
lectual principles. When these sentiments are perverted by 
ignorance or prejudice, they are capable of being rectified by 
reason. Their sound and natural state is ultimately determined, 
by comparing them with the general taste of mankind. Let 
men declaim as much as they please concerning the caprice and 
tlie uncertainty of taste, it is found by experience, that there 
are beauties, which, if they be displayed in a proper light, have 
power to command lasting and general admiration. In every 
composition, what interests the imagination, and touches the 
heart, pleases all ages and all nations. There is a certain 



CRITICISM. 3* 

string to which, when properly struck, the human heart is so 
made as to answer. 

Hence the universal testimony which the most improved 
nations of the earth have conspired, throughout a long tract of 
ages, to give to some few works of genius ; such as the Iliad of 
Homer, and the iEneid of Virgil. Hence the authority which 
such works have acquired as standards, in some degree, of 
poetical composition ; since from them we are enabled to collect 
what the sense of mankind is, concerning those beauties which 
give them the highest pleasure, and which therefore poetry 
ought to exhibit. Authority or prejudice may, in one age or 
country, give a temporary reputation to an indifferent poet, or a 
bad artist : but when foreigners, or when posterity examine his 
works, his faults are discerned, and the genuine taste of human 
nature appears. " Opinionum commenta delet dies ; naturae 
judicia confirmat." Time overthrows the illusions of opinion, 
but establishes the decisions of nature. 



LECTURE III. 

CRITICISM.— GENIUS.— PLEASURES OF TASTE.— SUBLIMITY IN 

OBJECTS. 

TASTE, criticism, and genius, are words currently em- 
ployed, without distinct ideas annexed to them. In beginning a 
course of lectures where such words must often occur, it is 
necessary to ascertain their meaning with some precision. 
Having in the last lecture treated of taste, I proceed to explain 
the nature and foundation of criticism. True criticism is the 
application of taste and of good sense to the several fine arts. 
The object which it proposes is, to distinguish what is beautiful 
and what is faulty in every performance ; from particular in- 
stances to ascend to general principles ; and so to form rules or 
conclusions concerning the several kinds of beauty in works of 
genius. 

The rules of criticism are not formed by any induction a 
priori, as it is called ; that is, they are not formed by a train of 
abstract reasoning, independent of facts and observations. 
Criticism is an art founded wholly on experience ; on the obser- 
vations ok such beauties as have come nearest to the standard 
which I before established; that is, of such beauties as havfr 



24 LECTURE III. 

been found to please mankind most generally. For example , 
Aristotle's rules concerning the unity of action in dramatic and 
epic composition, were not rules first discovered by logical rea- 
soning, and then applied to poetry ; but they were drawn from 
the practice of Homer and Sophocles : they were founded upon 
observing the superior pleasure which we receive from the rela- 
tion of an action which is one and entire, beyond what we re- 
ceive from the relation of scattered and unconnected facts. 
Such observations, taking their rise at first from feeling and 
experience, were found on examination to be so consonant to 
reason, and to the principles of human nature, as to pass into 
established rules, and to be conveniently applied for judging of 
the excellency of any performance. This is the most natural 
account of the origin of criticism. 

A masterly genius, it is true, will of himself, untaught, com- 
pose in such a manner as shall be agreeable to the most mate- 
rial rules of criticism ; for as these rules are founded in nature, 
nature will often suggest them in practice. Homer, it is more 
than probable, was acquainted with no systems of the art of 
poetry. Guided by genius alone, he composed in verse a regu- 
lar story, which all posterity has admired. But this is no 
argument against the usefulness of criticism as an art. For, as 
no human genius is perfect, there is no writer but may receive 
assistance from critical observations upon the beauties and 
faults of those who have gone before him. No observations or 
rules can indeed supply the defect of genius, or inspire it where 
>t is wanting. But they may often direct it into its proper chan* 
nel ; they may correct its extravagancies, and point out to it 
the most just and proper imitation of nature. Critical rules are 
designed chiefly to show the faults that ought to be avoided. 
To nature we must be indebted for the production of eminent 
beauties. 

From what has been said, we are enabled to form a judg- 
ment concerning those complaints which it has long been 
fashionable for petty authors to make against critics and criti- 
cism. Critics have been represented as the great abridgers 
of the native liberty of genius ; as the imposers of unnatural 
shackles and bonds upon writers, from whose cruel persecution 
they must fly to the public, and implore its protection. Such 
supplicatory prefaces are not calculated to give very favourable 
ideas of the genius of the author : for every good writer will 
be pleased to have his work examined by the principles of sound 



CRITICISM. 26 

understanding and true taste. The declamations against cri- 
ticism commonly proceed upon this supposition, that critics 
are such as judge by rule, not by feeling ; which is so far from 
being true, that they who judge after this manner are pedants, 
not critics. For all the rules of genuine criticism I have shown 
to be ultimately founded on feeling ; and taste and feeling are 
necessary to guide us in the application of these rules to every 
particular instance. As there is nothing in which all sorts of 
persons more readily aifect to be judges than in works of taste, 
there is no doubt that the number of incompetent critics will 
always be great. But this affords no more foundation for a 
general invective against criticism, than the number of bad 
philosophers or reasoners affords against reason and philo- 
sophy. 

An objection more plausible may be formed against criti- 
cism, from the applause that some performances have received 
from the public, which, when accurately considered, are found 
to contradict the rules established by criticism. Now, accord- 
ing to the principles laid down in the last lecture, the public is 
the supreme judge to whom the last appeal must be made in 
every work of taste ; as the standard of taste is founded on the 
sentiments that are natural and common to all men. But with 
respect to this, we are to observe, that the sense of the public is 
often too hastily judged of. The genuine public taste does not 
always appear in the first applause given upon the publication 
of any new work. There are both a great vulgar and a small, 
apt to be catched and dazzled by very superficial beauties, 
the admiration of which in a little time passes away: and 
sometimes a writer may acquire great temporary reputation 
merely by his compliance with the passions or prejudices, with 
the party-spirit or superstitious notions, that may chance to 
rule for a time almost a whole nation. In such cases, though 
the public may seem to praise, true criticism may with reason 
condemn : and it will in progress of time gain the ascendant : 
for the judgment of true criticism, and the voice of the public, 
when once become unprejudiced and dispassionate, will ever 
coincide at last. 

Instances, I admit, there are, of some works that contain 
gross transgressions of the laws of criticism, acquiring, never- 
theless, a general, and even a lasting admiration. Such are 
the plays of Shakespeare, which, considered as dramatic poems, 
are irregular in the highest degree. But then we are to remark, 



26 LECTURE III. 

that they have gained the public admiration, not by their beingf 
irregular, not by their transgressions of the rules of art. but 
in spite of such transgressions. They possess other beauties,, 
which are conformable to just rules ; and the force of these 
beauties has been so great as to overpower all censure, and to 
give the public a degree of satisfaction superior to the disgust 
arising from their blemishes. Shakespeare pleases, not by his 
bringing the transactions of many years into one play ; not by 
his grotesque mixtures of tragedy and comedy in one piece, 
nor by the strained thoughts, and affected witticisms, which he 
sometimes employs. These Ave consider as blemishes, and 
impute them to the grossness of the age in which he lived. 
But he pleases by his animated and masterly representations 
of characters, by the liveliness of his descriptions, the force of 
his sentiments, and his possessing, beyond all writers, the 
natural language of passion : beauties which true criticism no 
less teaches us to place in the highest rank, than nature teaches 
us to feel. 

I proceed next to explain the meaning of another term, which 
there will be frequent occasion to employ in these lectures : that 
is, Genius. 

Taste and genius are two words frequently joined together ; 
and therefore, by inaccurate thinkers, confounded. They sig 
nify however two quite different things. The difference between 
them can be clearly pointed out : and it is of importance to 
remember it. Taste consists in the power of judging ; genius 
in the power of executing. One may have a considerable de- 
gree of taste in poetry, eloquence, or any of the fine arts, who 
has little or hardly any genius for composition or execution in 
any of these arts, but genius cannot be found without including 
taste also. Genius, therefore, deserves to be cfcisidered as a 
higher power of the mind than taste. Genius always imports 
something inventive or creative ; which does not rest in mere 
sensibility to beauty where it is perceived, but which can, more 
over, produce new beauties, and exhibit them in such a manne. 
as strongly to impress the minds of others. Refined taste forms 
a good critic ; but genius is further necessary to form the poet, 
or the orator. 

It is proper also to observe, that genius is a word, which, in 
common acceptation, extends much iurther than to the objects cf 
taste. It is used to signify that talent or aptitude which we 
receive from nature, for excelling in any one thing whatever. 



GENIUS, «i 

Thus we speak of a genius for mathematics, as well as a genius 
for poetry : of a genius for war, for politics, or for any mechani- 
cal employment. 

This talent or aptitude for excelling in some one particular, 
is, I have said, what we receive from nature. By art and study, 
no doubt, it may be greatly improved ; but by them alone it 
cannot be acquired. As genius is a higher faculty than taste, 
it is ever, according to the usual frugality of nature, more 
limited in the sphere of its operations. It is not uncommon to 
meet with persons who have an excellent taste in several of the 
polite arts, such as music, poetry, painting, and eloquence, all 
together : but, to find one who is an excellent performer in all 
these arts, is much more rare ; or rather, indeed, such an one 
is not to be looked for. A sort of universal genius, or one who 
is equally and indifferently turned towards several different 
professions and arts, is not likely to excel in any. Although 
there may be some few exceptions, yet in general it holds, that 
when the bent of the mind is wholly directed towards some one 
object, exclusive, in a manner, of others, there is the fairest 
prospect of eminence in that, whatever it be. The rays must 
converge to a point, in order to glow intensely. This remark 
I here choose to make, on account of its great importance to 
young people ; in leading them to examine with care, and to 
pursue with ardour, the current and pointing of nature towards 
those exertions of genius in which they are most likely to 
excel. 

A genius for any of the fine arts, as I before observed, 
always supposes taste ; and it is clear, that the improvement of 
taste will serve both to forward and to correct the operations of 
genius. In proportion as the taste of a poet, or orator, becomes 
more refined? with respect to the beauties of composition, it will 
certainly assist him to produce the more finished beauties in his 
work. Genius, however, in a poet or orator, may sometimes 
exist in a higher degree than taste ; that is, genius may be bold 
and strong, when taste is neither very delicate, nor very cor- 
rect. This is often the case in the infancy of arts : a period 
when genius frequently exerts itself with great vigour and exe- 
cutes with much warmth ; while taste, which requires experience, 
and improves by slower degrees, hath not yet attained to its 
full growth. Homer and Shakespeare are proofs of what I now 
assert; in whose admirable writings are found instances of 
rudeness and indelicacy, which the more refined taste of later 



28 LECTURE III 

writers, who had far inferior genius to them, would have taught 
them to avoid. As all human perfection is limited, this may 
very probably be the law of our nature, that it is not given to 
one man to execute with vigour and fire, and at the same time, 
to attend to all the lesser and more refined graces that belong to 
the exact perfection of his work : while, on the other hand, a 
thorough taste for those inferior graces, is, for the most part, 
accompanied with a diminution of sublimity and force. 

Having thus explained the nature of taste, the nature and 
importance of criticism, and the distinction between taste and 
genius ; I am now to consider the sources of the pleasures of 
taste. Here opens a very extensive field ; no less than all the 
pleasures of the imagination, as they are commonly called, 
whether afforded us by natural objects, or by the imitations and 
descriptions of them. But it is not necessary to the purpose of 
my lectures, that all these should be examined fully ; the plea- 
sure which we receive from discourse, or writing, being the main 
object of them. All that I propose, is to give some openings 
into the pleasures of taste in general ; and to insist more par- 
ticularly upon sublimity and beauty. 

We are far from having yet attained to any system con- 
cerning this subject. Mr. Addison was the first who attempted 
a regular inquiry, in his Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagina- 
tion, published in the sixth volume of the Spectator. He has 
reduced these pleasures under three heads — beauty, grandeur, 
and novelty. His speculations on this subject, if not exceedingly 
profound, are, however, very beautiful and entertaining ; and he 
has the merit of having opened a track, which was before un- 
beaten. The advances made since his time, in this curious part 
of philosophical criticism, are not very considerable ; though 
some ingenious writers have pursued the subject. This is owing, 
doubtless, to that thinness and subtilty which are found to be 
properties of all the feelings of taste. They are engaging ob- 
jects ; but when we would lay firm hold of them, and subject 
them to a regular discussion, they are always ready to elude our 
grasp. It is difficult to make a full enumeration of the several 
objects that give pleasure to taste ; it is more difficult to define 
all those which have been discovered, and to reduce them under 
proper classes ; and, when we would go further, and investigate 
the efficient causes of the pleasure which we receive from such 
objects, here, above all, we find ourselves at a loss. For in- 
stance ; we all learn by experience, that certain figures of bodies 



PLEASURES OF TASTE. 29 

appear to us more beautiful than others. On inquiring further, 
we find that the regularity of some figures, and the graceful 
variety of others, are the foundation of the beauty which we 
discern in them ; but when we attempt to go a step beyond this, 
and inquire what is the cause of regularity and variety pro- 
ducing in our minds the sensation of beauty, any reason we can 
assign is extremely imperfect. These first principles of internal 
sensation nature seems to have covered with an impenetrable 
veil. 

It is some comfort, however, that although the efficient cause 
be obscure, the final cause of those sensations lies in many cases 
more open : and, in entering on this subject, we cannot avoid 
taking notice of the strong impression which the powers of 
taste and imagination are calculated to give us of the benignity of 
our Creator. By endowing us with such powers, he hath widely 
enlarged the sphere of the pleasures of human life ; and those 
too of a kind the most pure and innocent. The necessary pur 
poses of life might have been abundantly answered, though our 
senses of seeing and hearing had only served to distinguish ex- 
ternal objects, without conveying to us any of those refined and 
delicate sensations of beauty and grandeur, with which we are 
now so much delighted. This additional embellishment and 
glory, which, for promoting our entertainment, the Author of 
Nature hath poured forth upon his works, is one striking testi- 
mony, among many others, of benevolence and goodness. This 
thought, which Mr. Addison first started, Dr. Akenside, in 
his poem on the Pleasures of the Imagination, has happily 
pursued 



-Not content 



With every food of life to noursish man, 
By kind illusions of the wondering sense, 
Thou mak'st all nature, beauty to his eye. 
Or music to his ear. — 

I shall begin with considering the pleasure which arises 
from sublimity or grandeur of which I propose to treat at some 
length : both as this has a character more precise and distinctly 
marked than any other of the pleasures of the imagination, and 
as it coincides more directly with our main subject. For the 
greater distinctness, I shall, first, treat of the grandeur or sub- 
limity of external objects themselves, which will employ the rest 
of this lecture ; and afterwards, of the description of such ob- 
jects, or of what is called the sublime in writing, which shall be 



so lecture nr. 

the subject of a following lecture. I distinguish these two things 
from one another, the grandeur of the objects themselves when 
they are presented to the eye, and the description of that gran- 
deur in discourse or writing ; though most critics, inaccurately I 
think, blend them together ; and I consider grandeur and sub- 
limity as terms synonimous, or nearly so. If there be any 
' distinction between them, it arises from sublimity's expressing 
grandeur in its highest degree.* 

It is not easy to describe, in words, the precise impression 
which great and sublime objects make upon us, when we 
behold them ; but every one has a conception of it. It pro- 
duces a sort of internal elevation and expansion ; it raises the 
mind much above its ordinary state ; and fills it with a degree 
of wonder and astonishment, which it cannot well express. 
The emotion is certainly delightful ; but it is altogether of the 
serious kind ; a degree of awfulness and solemnity, even ap- 
proaching to severity, commonly attends it when at its height ; 
very distinguishable from the more gay and brisk emotion 
raised by beautiful objects. 

The simplest form of external grandeur appears in the vast 
and boundless prospects presented to us by nature; such as 
wide extended plains, to which the eye can see no limits ; the 
firmament of heaven ; or the boundless expanse of the ocean. 
All vastness produces the impression of sublimity. It is to be 
remarked, however, that space, extended in length, makes not 
so strong an impression as height or depth. Though a bound 
less plain be a grand object, yet a high mountain, to which we 
look up, or an awful precipice or tower whence we look down on 
the objects which lie below, is still more so. The excessive 
grandeur of the firmament arises from its height, joined to its 
boundless extent ; and that of the ocean, not from its extent 
alone, but from the perpetual motion and irresistible force of 
that mass of waters. Wherever space is concerned, it is clear, 
that amplitude or greatness of extent, in one dimension or other, 
is necessary to grandeur. Remove all bounds from any object, 
and you presently render it sublime. Hence infinite space, 
endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind with great 
ideas. 

From this some have imagined, that vastness, or amplitude 
of extent, is the foundation of all sublimity. But I cannot be 

• See a Philosophical Enquiry into the origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and 
Beautiful. Dr. Gerrard on Taste, Section II, Elements of Criticism, chap. iv. 



SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 31 

of this opinion, because many objects appear sublime which 
have no relation to space at all. Such, for instance, is great 
loudness of sound. The burst of thunder or of cannon, the 
roaring of winds, the shouting of multitudes, the sound of vast 
cataracts of water, are all incontestibly grand objects. " 1 heard 
the voice of a great multitude, as the sound of many waters, and 
of mighty thunderings, saying Hallelujah." In general, we 
may observe, that great power and force exerted always raise 
sublime ideas ; and perhaps the most copious source of these is 
derived from this quarter. Hence the grandeur of earthquakes 
and burning mountains ; of great conflagrations ; of the stormy 
ocean, and overfloAving waters ; of tempests of wind ; of thunder 
and lightning ; and of all the uncommon violence of the elements. 
Nothing is more sublime than mighty power and strength. A 
stream that runs within its banks, is a beautiful object : but 
when it rushes down with the impetuosity and noise of a torrent, 
it presently becomes a sublime one. From lions, and other 
animals of strength, are drawn sublime comparisons in poets. 
A race-horse is looked upon with pleasure ; but it is the war- 
horse, " whose neck is clothed with thunder," that carries gran- 
deur in its idea. The engagement of two great armies, as it is 
the highest exertion of human might, combines a variety of 
sources of the sublime ; and has accordingly been always consi- 
dered as one of the most striking and magnificent spectacles 
that can be either presented to the eye, or exhibited to the ima- 
gination in description 

For the further illustration of this subject/ it is proper to 
remark, that all ideas of the solemn and awful kind, and even 
bordering on the terrible, tend greatly to assist the sublime ; 
such as darkness, solitude, and silence. What are the scenes 
of nature that elevate the mind in the highest degree, and 
produce the sublime sensation ? Not the gay landscape, the 
flowery field, or the flourishing city ; but the hoary mountain, 
and the solitary lake ; the aged forest, and the torrent falling 
over the rock. Hence, too, night scenes are commonly the most 
sublime. The firmament, when filled with stars, scattered in 
such vast numbers, and with such magnificent profusion, strikes 
the imagination with a more awful grandeur, than when we view 
it enlightened with all the splendour of the sun. The deep sound 
of a great bell, or the striking of a great clock,- are at any 
time grand ; but, when heard amid the silence and stillness of 
the night, they become doubly so. Darkness is very commonly 



M LECTURE III. 

applied for adding sublimity to all our ideas of the Deity, * He 
maketh darkness his pavilion ; he dwelleth in the thick cloud." 
So Milton : 

How oft, amidst 



Thick clouds and dark, does heaven's all-ruling Sire 

Choose to reside, his glory unobscur'd, 

And, with the majesty of darkness, round 

Circles his throne Book II. 263. 

Observe, with how much art Virgil has introduced all those ideas 
of silence, vacuity, and darkness, when he is going to introduce 
his hero to the infernal regions, and to disclose the secrets of 
the great deep. 

Di, quibus imperium est animarum, umbraeque silentes, 
Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia late, 
Sit mihi fas audita loqui ; sit, numine vestro, 
Pandere res alta terra et caligine mersas. 
Ibant obscuri sola sub nocte per umbram, 
Perque domos Ditis vacuas, et inania regna 
Quale per inceitam lunam sub luce maligna 
Est iter in silvis .* 

These passages I quote at present, not so much as instances of 
sublime writing, though in themselves they truly are so, as to 
show, by the effect of them, that the objects which they present 
to us, belong to the class of sublime ones. 

Obscurity, we are further to remark, is not unfavourable to 
the sublime. Though it render the object indistinct, the im- 
pression, however, may be great ; for, as an ingenious author 
has well observed, it is one thing to make an idea clear, and 
another to make it affecting to the imagination ; and the imagi- 
nation may be strongly affected, and, in fact, often is so, by 
objects of which we have no clear conception. Thus we see that 
almost all the descriptions given us of the appearances of super- 
natural beings, carry some sublimity, though the conceptions 
which they afford us be confused and indistinct. Their subli- 

• Ye subterranean Gods, whose awful sway 
The gliding ghosts and silent shades obey ; 
O Chaos, hear ! and Phlegethon profound ! 
Whose solemn empire stretches wide around ! 
Give me, ye great tremendous powers! to tell 
Of scenes and wonders in the depths of hell ; 
Give me your mighty secrets to display, 
Frcm those black realms of darkness to the day.— PtTT. 

Obscure they went ; through dreary shades, that led 

Along the waste dominions of the dead ; 

A 8 wander travellers in woods bv night, 

By the moon's doubtful and malignant light.— Djwdfv. 



SUBLIMl 



OBJECTS. 



33 



rnity arises from the ideas, which they always convey, of supe- 
rior power and might, joined with an awful obscurity We may 
see this fully exemplified in the following noble passage of the 
book of Job : " In thoughts from the visions of the night, when 
deep sleep fdleth upon men, fear came upon me, and trembling, 
which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed be- 
fore my face ; the hair of my flesh stood up : It stood still ; but 
I could not discern the form thereof ; an image was before mine 
eyes ; there was silence ; and I heard a voice — Shall mortal 
man be more just than God ?"* (Job iv. 15.) No ideas, it is plain, 
are so sublime as those taken from the Supreme Being; the most 
unknown, but the greatest of all objects ; the infinity of whose 
nature, and the eternity of whose duration, joined with the om- 
nipotence of his power, though they surpass our conceptions, 
yet exalt them to the highest. In general, all objects that are 
greatly raised above us, or far removed from us either in space 
or in time, are apt to strike us as great. Our viewing them as 
through the mist of distance or antiquity, is favourable to the 
impressions of their sublimity. 

As obscurity, so disorder too, is very compatible with gran- 
deur ; nay, frequently heightens it. Few things that are strictly 
regular, and methodical, appear sublime. We see the limits on 
every side ; we feel ourselves confined ; there is no room for the 
mind's exerting any great effort. Exact proportion of parts, 
though it enters often into the beautiful, is much disregarded in 
the sublime. A great mass of rocks, thrown together by the 
hand of nature with wildness and confusion, strike the mind with 
more grandeur than if they had been adjusted to one another 
with the most accurate symmetry. 

In the feeble attempts which human art can make towards 
producing grand objects (feeble, I mean, in comparison with 
the powers of nature), greatness of dimensions always consti- 
tutes a principal part. No pile of buildings can convey any idea 



* The picture which Lucretius has drawn of the dominion of superstition ovei 
mankind, representing it as a portentous spectre showing its head from the clouds, 
and dismaying the whole human race with its countenance, together with the 
magnanimity of Epicurus in raising himself up against it, carries all th« 
grandeur of a sublime, obscure, and awful image. 

Humana ante oculos fcede cum vita jaceret 

In terris, oppressa gravi sub religione, 

Quae caput a coeli regionibus ostendebat, 

Horribili super adspectu a mortalibus instans, 

Primum Graius homo mortales tollere contra 

L«t oculos ausus. — Lib. i. (i%. 



34 LECTURE III. 

of sublimity, unless it be ample and lofty. There is too, in ar- 
chitecture, what is called greatness of manner; which seems 
chiefly to arise from presenting the object to us in one full 
point of view ; so that it shall make its impression whole, entire, 
and undivided, upon the mind. A Gothic cathedral raises ideas 
of grandeur in our minds, by its size, its height, its awful ob- 
scurity, its strength, its antiquity, and its durability 

There still remains to be mentioned one class of sublime ob- 
jects, which may be called the moral or sentimental sublime ; 
arising from certain exertions of the human mind ; from certain 
affections and actions of our fellow-creatures. These will be 
found to be all, or chiefly, of that class, which comes under the 
name of magnanimity or heroism ; and they produce an effect 
extremely similar to what is produced by the view of grand 
objects in nature ; filling the mind with admiration, and elevat- 
ing it above itself. A noted instance of this, quoted by all the 
French critics, is the celebrated Qu'il mourut of Corneille, in 
the tragedy of Horace. In the famous combat betwixt the Ho- 
ratii and the Curiatii, the old Horatius, being informed that two 
of his sons are slain, and that the third had betaken himself to 
flight, at first will not believe the report ; but being thoroughly 
assured of the fact, is fired with all the sentiments of high ho- 
nour and indignation at this supposed unworthy behaviour of his 
surviving son. He is reminded, that his son stood alone against 
three, and asked what he wished him to have done ? — u To have 
died!" — he answers. In the same manner, Porus, taken pri- 
soner by Alexander, after a gallant defence, and asked how he 
wished to be treated ? answering, " Like a king ;" and Caesar 
chiding the pilot who was afraid to set out with him in a storm, 
" Quid times ? Csesarem vehis ;" are good instances of this sen- 
timental sublime. Wherever, in some critical and high situa- 
tion, we behold a man uncommonly intrepid, and resting upon 
himself; superior to passion and to fear; animated by some 
great principle to the contempt of popular opinion, of selfish 
interest, of dangers, or of death ; there we are struck with a 
sense of the sublime.* 

* The sublime, in natural and in moral objects, is brought before us in one 
view, and compared together, in the following beautiful passage of Akenside's 
Pleasures of the Imagination : 

Look then abroad through nature ; to the range 
Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, 
Wheeling, unshaken, through the void immense; 
And speak, O man! does this capacious scene, 
With half that kindling majesty, dilate 
Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose 



SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 35 

High virtue is the most natural and fertile source of this moral 
sublimity. However, on some occasions, where virtue either 
has no place, or is but imperfectly displayed, yet if extraordi- 
nary vigour and force of mind be discovered, we are not insen- 
sible to a degree of grandeur in the character ; and from the 
splendid conqueror, or the daring conspirator, whom we are far 
from approving, we cannot withhold our admiration. * 

I have now enumerated a variety of instances, both in inani- 
mate objects and in human life, wherein the sublime appears. 
In all these instances, the emotion raised in us is of the same 
kind, although the objects that produce the emotion be of 
widely different kinds. A question next arises, whether we are 
able to discover some one fundamental quality in which all these 
different objects agree, and which is the cause of their pro- 
ducing an emotion of the same nature in our minds ? Various 
hypotheses have been formed concerning this, but, as far as 
appears to me, hitherto unsatisfactory. Some have imagined 
that amplitude or great extent, joined with simplicity, is either 
immediately, or remotely, the fundamental quality of whatever is 
sublime ; but we have seen that amplitude is confined to one 
species of sublime objects ; and cannot, without violent straining, 
be applied to them all. The author of " A Philosophical En- 
quiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful," 



Refulgent, from the stroke of Caesar's fate, 

Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm 

Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 

When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud 

On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel, 

And bade the father of his country hail ! 

For lo 1 the tyrant prostrate on the dust ; 

And Rome again is free !— Book i. 

* Silius Italicus studied to give an august idea of Hannibal, by representing 
him as surrounded with all his victories, in the place of guards. One who had 
formed the design of assassinating him in the midst of a feast, is thus addressed '• 
Fallit te, mensas inter quod credis inermem ; 
Tot bellis quassita viro, tot caedibus, armat 
Majestas seterna ducem. Si admoveris ora, 
Cannas, et Trebiam ante oculos, Trasymenaque busta 
Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis mnbram. Lib. xi. 342. 

A thought somewhat of the same nature occurs in a French author : " II se 
cache; mais sa reputation le ddcouvre: il marche sans suite et sans equipage; 
mais chacun, dans sou esprit, le met sur un char de triomphe. On compte, en 
le voyant, les ennemis qu'il a vaincu, non pas les serviteurs qui le suivent. Tout 
seul qu'il est, on se figure, autour de lui, ses vertus, et ses victoires qui 1'accom- 
pagnent. Moins il est superbe, plus il devient venerable." Oraison Funebre de 
M. de Turenne, par M Flechier. — Both these passages are splendid, rather than 
sublime. In the first there is a want of justness in the thought ; in the second, 
of simplicity in the expression. 

D 2 



38 LKCTURE IV. 

to whom we are indebted fnr several ingenious and original 
thoughts upon this subject, proposes a formal theory upon this 
foundation, That terror is the source of the sublime, and that no 
objects have this character, but such as produce impressions of 
pain and danger. It is indeed true, that many terrible objects 
are highly sublime ; and that grandeur does not refuse an al- 
liance with the idea of danger. But though this is very properly 
illustrated by the author, (many of whose sentiments on tha 
head I have adopted,) yet he seems to stretch his theory too far, 
when he represents the sublime as consisting wholly in modes of 
danger, or of pain For the proper sensation of sublimity ap- 
pears to be distinguishable from the sensation of either of these , 
and, on several occasions, to be entirely separated from them. 
In many grand objects, there is no coincidence with terror at 
all ; as in the magnificent prospect of wide extended plains, and 
of the starry firmament ; or in the moral dispositions and senti- 
ments, which we view with high admiration ; and in many pain- 
ful and terrible objects also, it is clear, there is no sort of 
grandeur. The amputation of a limb, or the bite of a snake, are 
exceedingly terrible ; but are destitute of all claim whatever to 
sublimity. I am inclined to think, that mighty force or power, 
whether accompanied with terror or not, whether employed in 
protecting or in alarming us, has a better title, than any thing 
that has yet been mentioned, to be the fundamental quality of 
the sublime ; as, after the review which we have taken, there 
does not occur to me any sublime object, into the idea of which, 
power, strength, and force, either enter not directly, or are not, 
at least, intimately associated with the idea, by leading our 
thoughts to some astonishing power, as concerned in the pro- 
duction of the object. However, I do not insist upon this as 
sufficient to found a general theory : it is enough to have given 
this view of the nature and different kinds of sublime objects ; 
by which I hope to have laid a proper foundation for discussing, 
vifh greater accuracy, the sublime in writing and composition. 



LECTURE IV. 



THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 



Having treated of grandeur or sublimity in external ob- 
jects, the way seems now to be cleared, for treating, with more 



SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 37 

advantage, oi the description of such objects ; or, of what is 
called the sublime in writing. Though I may appear to enter 
early on the consideration of this subject ; yet, as the sublime is 
a species of writing which depends less than any other on the 
artificial embellishments of rhetoric, it may be examined with 
as much propriety here, as in any subsequent part of the Lec- 
tures. 

Many critical terms have unfortunately been employed in a 
sense too loose and vague, none more so, than that of the sub- 
lime. Every one is acquainted with the character of Caesar's 
Commentaries, and of the style in which they are written ; a 
style remarkably pure, simple, and elegant ; but the most re- 
mote from the sublime, of any of the classical authors. Yet this 
author has a German critic, Johannes Gulielmus Bergerus, who 
wrote no longer ago than the year 1720, pitched upon as the 
perfect model of the sublime, and has composed a quarto 
volume, entitled De naturali Pulchritudine Orationis; the express 
intention of which is to show, that Caesar's Commentaries con- 
tain the most complete exemplification of all Longinus's rules 
relating to sublime writing. This I mention as a strong proof 
of the confused ideas which have prevailed concerning this sub- 
ject. The true sense of sublime writing, undoubtedly, is such 
a description of objects, or exhibition of sentiments, which are 
in themselves of a sublime nature, as shall give us strong im- 
pressions of them. But there is another very indefinite, and 
therefore very improper sense, which has been too often put 
upon it ; when it is applied to signify any remarkable and dis- 
tinguishing excellency of composition ; whether it raise in us the 
ideas of grandeur, or those of gentleness, elegance, or any other 
sort of beauty. In this sense Caesar's Commentaries may, in- 
deed, be termed sublime, and so may many sonnets, pastorals, 
and love elegies, as well as Homer's Iliad. But this evidently 
confounds the use of words ; and marks no one species, or cha- 
racter of composition whatever. 

I am sorry to be obliged to observe, that the sublime is too 
often used in this last and improper sense, by the celebrated 
critic Longinus, in his treatise on this subject. He sets out, 
indeed, with describing it in its just and proper meaning ; as 
something that elevates the mind above itself, and fills it with 
high conceptions, and a noble pride. But from this view of it, 
he frequently departs ; and substitutes in the place of it, what- 
ever, in any strain of composition, pleases highly. Thus many 
of the passages which he produces as instances of the sublime 



a8 LECTURE IV. 

are merely elegant, without having the most distant relation to 
proper sublimity ; witness Sappho's famous ode, on which he des- 
cants at considerable length. He points out five sources of the 
sublime. The first is, boldness or grandeur in the thoughts ; the 
second is,- the pathetic ; the third, the proper application oi 
figures ; the fourth, the use of tropes and beautiful expressions 
the fifth, musical structure and arrangement of words. This is 
the plan of one who was writing a treatise of rhetoric, or of the 
beauties of writing in general ; not of the sublime in particular 
For of these five heads, only the two first have any peculiar 
relation to the sublime ; boldness and grandeur in the thoughts, 
and, in some instances, the pathetic, or strong exertions of pas- 
sion ; the other three, tropes, figures, and musical arrangements, 
have no more relation to the sublime, than to other kinds of 
good writing ; perhaps less to the sublime, than to any other 
species whatever ; because it requires less the assistance of or- 
nament. From this it appears, that clear and precise ideas on 
this head are not to be expected from that writer. I would not, 
however, be understood, as if I meant, by this censure, to 
represent his treatise as of small value ; I know no critic, an- 
cient or modern, that discovers a more lively relish of the beau- 
ties of fine writing, than Longinus ; and he has also the merit 
of being himself an excellent, and in several passages, a truly 
sublime, writer. But, as his work has been generally considered 
as a standard on this subject, it was incumbent on me to give 
my opinion concerning the benefit to be derived from it. It 
deserves to be consulted, not so mucn for distinct instruction 
concerning the sublime, as for excellent general ideas concerning 
beauty in writing. 

I return now to the proper and natural idea of the sublime 
in composition. The foundation of it must always be laid in the 
nature of the object described. Unless it be such an object as, 
if presented to our eyes, if exhibited to us in reality, would 
raise ideas of that elevating, that awful, and magnificent kind, 
which we call sublime ; the description, however finely drawn, 
is not entitled to come under this class. This excludes all 
objects that are merely beautiful, gay, or elegant. In the next 
place, the object must not only, in itself, be sublime, but it 
must be set before us in such a light as is most proper to give 
us a clear and full impression of it ; it must be described with 
strength, with conciseness, and simplicity. This depends, prin- 
cipally, upon the lively impression which the poet, or orator, 
nas of the object which he exhibits ; and upon his being deeply 



SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 8» 

affected and warmed by the sublime idea which he would con 
vey. If his own feeling be languid, he can never inspire us with 
any strong emotion. Instances, which are extremely numerous 
on this subject, will clearly show the importance of all the re- 
quisites which I have just now mentioned. 

It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient authors, 
that we are to look for the most striking instances of the sub- 
lime. I am inclined to think, that the early ages of the world, 
and the rude unimproved state of society, are peculiarly favour- 
able to the strong emotions of sublimity. The genius of men 
is then much turned to admiration and astonishment. Meeting 
with many objects, to them new and strange, their imagination 
is kept glowing, and their passions are often raised to the 
utmost. They think and express themselves boldly, and without 
restraint. In the progress of society, the genius and manners 
of men undergo a change more favourable to accuracy, than to 
strength or sublimity. 

Of all writings, ancient or modern, the sacred scriptures 
afford us the highest instances of the sublime. The descrip- 
tions of the Deity, in. them, are wonderfully noble ; both from 
the grandeur of the object, and the manner of representing it. 
What an assemblage, for instance, of awful and sublime ideas 
is presented to us, in that passage of the eighteenth psalm, 
where an appearance of the Almighty is described ! " In my 
distress I called upon the Lord ; he heard my voice out of his 
temple, and my cry came before him. Then the earth shook 
and trembled ; the foundations also of the hills were moved ; 
because he was wroth. He bowed the heavens and came 
down, and darkness was under his feet ; and he did ride upon 
a cherub, and did fly; yea he did fly upon the wings of the 
wind. He made darkness his secret place ; his pavilion round 
about him were dark waters, and thick clouds of the sky." 
Here, agreeably to the principles established in the last lecture, 
we see with what propriety and success the circumstances of 
darkness and terror are applied for heightening the sublime. So, 
also the prophet Habakkuk, in a similar passage : " He stood, 
and measured the earth ; he beheld, and drove asunder the na- 
tions. The everlasting mountains were scattered ; the perpetual 
hills did bow ; his ways are everlasting. The mountains saw 
thee ; and they trembled. The overflowing of the water passed 
by. The deep uttered his voice and lifted up his hands on high." 

The noted instance, given by Longinus, from Moses, " God 
said, Let there be light ; and there was light ;" is not liable to 



40 LECTURE IV. 

the censure which I passed on some of his instances, of being 
foreign to the subject. It belongs to the true sublime ; and the 
sublimity of it arises from the strong conception it gives, of an 
exertion of power, producing its effect with the utmost speed 
and facility A thought of the same kind is magnificently am- 
plified in the following passage of Isaiah (chap. xliv. 24, 27, 
28.) : Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, and he that formed 
thee from the womb : I am the Lord that maketh all things, that 
stretcheth forth the heavens alone, that spreadeth abroad the 
earth by myself— that saith to the deep, Be dry, and I will dry 
up thy rivers ; that saith of Cyrus, He is my shepherd, and shall 
perform all my pleasure ; even saying to Jerusalem, Thou shalt 
be built; and to the temple, Thy foundation shall be laid." 
There is a passage in the Psalms, which deserves to be men- 
tioned under this head ; " God," says the Psalmist, " stilleth the 
noise of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tumults of 
the people." The joining together two such grand objects as 
the ragings of the waters and the tumults of the people, between 
which there is so much resemblance as to form a very natural 
association in the fancy, and the representing them both as sub- 
ject, at one moment, to the command of God, produces a noble 
effect. 

Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics, has 
been greatly admired for sublimity, and he owes much of his 
grandeur to that native and unaffected simplicity which charac- 
terises his manner His descriptions of hosts engaging; the 
animation, the fire, and rapidity, which he throws into his 
battles, present, to every reader of the Iliad, frequent instances 
of sublime writing. His introduction of the gods tends often 
to heighten, in a high degree, the majesty of his warlike scenes. 
Hence Longinus bestows such high and just commendations on 
that passage, in the fifteenth book of the Iliad, where Neptune, 
when preparing to issue forth into the engagement, is described 
as shaking the mountains with his steps, and driving his chariot 
along the ocean ; Minerva arming herself for fight, in the fifth 
book; and Apollo, in the fifteenth, leading on the Trojans, 
and flashing terror with his aegis on the face of the Greeks, are 
similar instances of great sublimity added to the description of 
battles, by the appearances of those celestial beings. In the 
twentieth book, where all the gods take part in the engagement, 
according as they severally favour either the Grecians or the 
Trojans, the poet's genius is signally displayed, and the descrip- 
tion rises into the mos + awful magnificence. All nature is 



SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 41 

represented as in commotion. Jupiter thunders in the heavens ; 
Neptune strikes the earth with his trident ; the ships, the city, 
and the mountains shake ; the earth trembles to its centre j 
Pluto starts from his throne, in dread lest the secrets of the 
infernal region should be laid open to the view of mortals. The 
passage is worthy of being inserted. 

Avrap t7T£t Ae0' 6fxi\ov, ^OXvfnrioi r)\vQov avBpwv, 
7 Q,pTO 8' *F,pig KpctTEprj, XaoaaooQ' ave 8' 'A&jvij, — 
Ave 8' "Aprje Iripwdtv, speftvy XaiXcrm laog, — 
'Q,g rovg afi^oripovq fiaitapsQ S"80i orpvvovrg, 
Svfij3aXov, ev 8' avTotg 'ipiSa pi'iyvwro fiapetav' 
Aavbv 8' £j3povrrjcr£ Trarfjp avSpiov re Sewv re 
'Y^oOeV avrap tvepOe HooteiSckov trtva^e 
Yalav a7rEiptair}v, opiwv T aiTreiva Kapr/va. 
IlavrEC 8' EffcTEtovro TroSeg iroXvmSaKOV "iSrjg, 
Kai KOpv<j)a\, Tpwwv te 7roXtc> kcu vr/eg *A\aiG)v. 
"E88£t<TEv 8' virivepOsv ava% ivipu)v 'A'i$<DVtvg, 
Atiaag 8' ek S'povou aAro, Kai la^E' fii) ol vTTSpOt 
Tatav avapprfeui. FLoaeiSawv tvoai-^Oojv, 
OtKia 8e %tvr)Toi<TL Kai adavaTOtai (ftaveir) 
"EfitpSaXi' , Ivpwevra, to. ts arvytovm Stol 7rep. 
Toctctoc apa ktvttoq wpro S'ewv 'ip Si ^vviovtcjv.* 

Iliad, xx. 47, &c. 

The works of Ossian (as I have elsewhere shown) abound 

* But when the powers descending swell'd the fight, 
Then tumult rose, fierce rage, and pale affright ; 
Now through the trembling shores Minerva calls, 
And now she thunders from the Grecian walls. 
Mars, hov'ring o'er his Troy, his terror shrouds 
In gloomy tempests, and a night of'clouds ; 
Now through each Trojan heart he fury pours, 

With voice divine, from Ilion's topmost towers 

Above, the Sire of Gods his thunder rolls, 

And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles ; 

Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground, 

The forests wave, the mountains nod around ; 

Through all her summits tremble Ida's woods, 

And from their sources boil her hundred Hoods ; 

Troy's turrets totter on the rocking plain, 

And the toss'd navies beat the heaving main : 

Deep in the dismal region of the dead, 

Th' infernal monarch rear'd his horrid head, 

Leapt from his throne, lest Neptune's arm should lay 

His dark dominions open to the day, 

And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes, 

Abhorr'd by men, and dreadful ev'n to gods. 

Such wars th' immortals wage, such horrors rend 

The world's vast concave, when the gods contend. — Pore. 



43 ' LECTURE IV. 

with examples of the sublime. The subjects of which that 
author treats, and the manner in which he writes, are particu- 
larly favourable to it. He possesses all the plain and venerable 
manner of the ancient times. He deals in no superfluous or 
gaudy ornaments ; but throws forth his images with a rapid 
conciseness, which enables them to strike the mind with the 
greatest force. Among poets of more polished times, we are to 
look for the graces of correct writing, for just proportion of 
parts, and skilfully conducted narration. In the midst of 
smiling scenery and pleasurable themes, the gay and the beauti- 
ful will appear, undoubtedly, to more advantage. But amidst 
the rude scenes of nature and of society, such as Ossian 
describes ; amidst rocks, and torrents, and whirlwinds, and 
battles, dwells the sublime, and naturally associates itself with 
that grave and solemn spirit which distinguishes the author of 
Fingal. " As autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing 
hills, so towards each other approached the heroes. As two 
dark streams from high rocks meet and mix, and roar on the 
plain : loud, rough, and dark, in battle, met Lochlin and Inis- 
fail ; chief mixed his strokes with chief, and man with man. 
Steel clanging sounded on steel. Helmets are cleft on high ; 
blood bursts, and smokes around. As the troubled noise of 
the ocean when roll the waves on high ; as the last peal of the 
thunder of heaven ; such is the noise of battle. The groan of 
the people spread over the hills. It was like the thunder of 
night, when the cloud bursts on Cona, and a thousand ghosts 
shriek at once on the hollow wind." Never were images 
of more awful sublimity employed to heighten the terror of 
battle, 

I have produced these instances in order to demonstrate 
that conciseness and simplicity are essential to sublime writing. 
Simplicity I place in opposition to studied and profuse orna- 
ment, and conciseness to superfluous expression. The reason 
why a defect, either in conciseness or simplicity, is hurtful in a 
peculiar manner to the sublime, I shall endeavour to explain. 
The emotion occasioned in the mind by some great or noble 
object raises it considerably above its ordinary pitch. A sort 
of enthusiasm is produced, extremely agreeable while it lasts, 
but from which the mind is tending every moment to fall 
down into its ordinary situation. Now, when an author has 
brought us, or is attempting to bring us, into this state ; if he 
multiplies words unnecessarily, if he decks the sublime object 
which he presents to us. round anH *-minr! w \th a-KHermtr orna 



SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 4.1 

ments ; nay, if he throws in any one decoration that sinks in the 
least below the capital image, that moment he alters the key ; he 
relaxes the tension of the mind ; the strength of the feeling is 
emasculated; the beautiful may remain, but the sublime is 
gone. — When Julius Caesar said to the pilot who was afraid 
to put to sea with him in a storm, " Quid times ? Caesarem 
vehis ;" we are struck with the daring magnanimity of one 
relying with such confidence on his cause and his fortune. 
These few words convey every thing necessary to give us the 
impression full. Lucan resolved to amplify and adorn the 
thought. Observe how, every time he twists it round, it 
departs further from the sublime, till it end at last in a tumid 
declamation. 

Sperne niinas, inquit, pelagi, ventoque furenti 
Trade sinum : Italiam si coelo auctore recusas, 
Me pete. Sola tibi causa haec est justa titnoris 
Victorem non n&sse tuum ; quern numina nunquam 
Destituunt ; de quo male tunc Fortuna meretur 
Cum post vota venit. Medias perrumpe procellas 
Tutela secure mea. Coeli iste freticme 
Non puppis nostra? labor est. Hanc Caesare pressam 
A fluctu defendet onus ; nam proderit undis 

Iste ratis : Quid tanta strage paretur 

Ignoras ? quaerit pelagi cnelique tumultu 
Quid praestet fortuna mihi.* — Phars. v. 578. 

On account of the great importance of simplicity and 
conciseness, I conceive rhyme, in English verse, to be, if not 
inconsistent with the sublime, at least very unfavourable to it 
fhe constrained elegance of this kind of verse, and studied 

* But Caesar, still superior to distress, 
Fearless and confident of sure success, 

Thus to the pilot loud : The seas despise, 

And the vain threat'ning of the noisy skies ; 

Though gods deny thee yon Ausonian strand, 

Yet go, I charge you, go, at my command ! 

Thy ignorance alone can cause thy fears, 

Thou know'st not what a freight thy vessel bears ; 

Thou know'st not I am he to whom 'tis given 

Never to want the care of watchful heaven. 

Obedient Fortune waits my humble thrall, 

And, always ready, comes before I call. 

Let winds, and seas, loud wars at freedom wage, 

And waste upon themselves their empty rage ; 

A stronger, mightier daemon is thy friend, 

Thou, and thy bark, on Caesar's fate depend. 

Tnou stand'st amaz'd to view this dreadful scene, 

And wonder'st what the Gods and Fortune mean ; 

Bat artfully their bounties thus they raise, 

And from my danger arrogate new praise : 

Amidst the fears of death they bid me live, 

And still enhance what they are sure to give.— Rowe. 



44 LECTURE IV. 

smoothness of the sounds, answering regularly to each other at 
the end of the line, though they be quite consistent with gentle 
emotions, yet weaken the native force of sublimity; besides, 
that the superfluous words which the poet is often obliged to in 
troduce, in order to fill up the rhyme, tend further to enfeeble 
it. Homer's description of the nod of Jupiter, as shaking the 
heavens, has been admired in all ages, as highly sublime. Li- 
terally translated, it runs thus : " He spoke, and bending his sable 
brows, gave the awful nod ; while he shook the celestial locks 
of his immortal head, all Olympus was shaken." Mr. Pope 
translates it thus : 

He spoke ; and awful bends his sable brows, 
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod, 
The stamp of fate, and sanction of a God. 
High Heaven with trembling the dread signal took, 
And all Olympus to its centre shook. 

The image is spread out, and attempted to be beautified ; but 
it is, in truth, weakened. The third line, " The stamp of fate, 
and sanction of a God," is merely expletive ; and introduced 
for no other reason but to fill up the rhyme ; for it interrupts the 
description, and clogs the image. For the same reason, out of 
mere compliance with the rhyme, Jupiter is represented as shak- 
ing his locks before he gives the nod ; — " Shakes his ambrosial 
curls, and gives the nod," which is trifling and without meaning. 
Whereas, in the original, the hair of his head shaken, is the 
effect of his nod, and makes a happy picturesque circumstance 
in the description.* 

The boldness, freedom, and variety of our blank verse, is 
infinitely more favourable than rhyme, to all kinds of sublime 
poetry. The fullest proof of this is afforded by Milton, an au- 
thor whose genius led him eminently to the sublime. The 
whole first and second books of Paradise Lost, are continued 
instances of it. Take only, for an example, the following noted 
description of Satan, after his fall, appearing at the head of the 
infernal hosts : 

-He, above the rest, 



In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
Stood like a tower : his form had not yet lost 
All her original brightness, nor appear'd 
Less than archangel ruin'd, and the excess 
Of glory obscur'd : as when the sun, new risen, 
Looks through the horizontal misty air, 
Shorn of his beams ; or, from behind the moon, 

• See Webb on the Beauties of Poetry. 



SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 45 

In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
On half the nations, and, with tear of change, 
Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone 
Above them all th* Archangel. 

Here concur a variety of sources of the sublime : the prin- 
cipal object eminently great ; a high superior nature, fallen in- 
deed, but erecting itself against distress ; the grandeur of the 
principal object heightened, by associating it with so noble an 
idea as that of the sun suffering an eclipse ; this picture shaded 
with all those images of change and trouble, of darkness and 
terror, which coincide so finely with the sublime emotion ; and 
the whole expressed in a style and versification, easy, natural, 
and simple, but magnificent, 

I have spoken of simplicity and conciseness as essential to 
sublime writing. In my general description of it I mentioned 
strength, as another necessary requisite. The strength of de- 
scription arises, in a great measure, from a simple concise- 
ness ; but it supposes also something more, namely, a proper 
choice of circumstances in the description, so as to exhibit 
the object in its full and most striking point of view. For 
every object has several faces, so to speak, by which it may be 
presented to us, according to the circumstances with which 
we surround it ; and it will appear eminently sublime, or not, 
in proportion as all these circumstances are happily chosen, 
and of a sublime kind. Here lies the great art of the writer j 
and, indeed, the great difficulty of sublime description. If the 
description be too general, and divested of circumstances, the 
object appears in a faint light ; it makes a feeble impression, or 
no impression at all, on the reader. At the same time, if any 
trivial or improper circumstances are mingled, the whole is 
degraded. 

A storm or tempest, for instance, is a sublime object in 
nature. But, to render it sublime in description, it is not 
enough, either to give us mere general expressions concerning 
the violence of the tempest, or to describe its common vulgar 
effects, in overthrowing trees and houses. It must be painted 
with such circumstances as fill the mind with great and awful 
ideas. This is very happily done by Virgil, in the following 
passage : 

Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca 
Fulmina molitnr dextr& ; quo maxima motu 
Terra tremit ; fugere ferae ; et mortalia corda 
Per gentes humilis stravit pavor : ille flagranti 



40 LECTURE IV. 

A ut Atho, ant Rhodopen, aut alta Ceiaunia telo 
Dejicit.* Georg. i. 328. 

Every circumstance in this noble description is the production 
of an imagination heated and astonished with the grandeur of 
the object. If there be any defect, it is in the words immedi- 
ately following these I have quoted ; " Ingeminant Austri, et 
densissimus imber ;" where the transition is made too hastily, I 
am afraid, from the preceding sublime images, to a thick 
shower, and the blowing of the south wind; and shows how 
difficult it frequently is, to descend with grace, without seeming 
to fall. 

The high importance of the rule which I have been now giv- 
ing, concerning the proper choice of circumstances, when de- 
scription is meant to be sublime, seems to me not to have been 
sufficiently attended to. It has, however, such a foundation in 
nature, as renders the least deflexion from it fatal. When a 
writer is aiming at the beautiful only, his descriptions may have 
improprieties in them, and yet be beautiful still. Some trivial 
or misjudged circumstances can be overlooked by the reader ; 
they make only the difference of more or less ; the gay, or 
pleasing emotion, which he has raised, subsists still. But the 
case is Yjuite different with the sublime. There, one trifling cir- 
cumstance, one mean idea, is sufficient to destroy the whole 
charm. This is owing to the nature of the emotion aimed at 
by sublime description, which admits of no mediocrity, and can- 
not subsist in a middle state ; but must either highly transport 
us, or, if unsuccessful in the execution, leave us greatly dis- 
gusted and displeased. We attempt to rise along with the 
writer ; the imagination is awakened, and put upon the stretch ; 
but it requires to be supported ; and, if in the midst of its efforts, 
you desert it unexpectedly, down it comes, with a painful shock. 
When Milton, in his battle of the angels, describes them as 



The Father of the Gods his glory shrouds, 

Involv'd in tempests, and a night of clouds : 

And from the middle darkness flashing out, 

By fits he deals his fiery bolts about. 

Earth feels the motions of her angrj 

Her entrails tremble, and her mountains : 

And flying beasts in forests seek abode 

Deep horror seizes every human breast ; 

Their pride is humbled, and their fears confess'd ; 

While he, from high, his rolling thunder throws, 

And fires the mountains with repeated blows ; 

The rocks are from their old foundations rent ; 

The winds redouble, and the rains augment. — Dry den. 



ut. 

;ry God, ) 
intains nod, /■ 
bode. J 



SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 41 

tearing up the mountains, and throwing them at one another ; 
there are, in his description, as Mr. Addison has observed, no 
circumstances but what are properly sublime : 

From their foundations loos'ning to and fro, 
They pluck'd the seated hills, with all their load, 
Rocks, waters, woods ; and by the shaggy tops 
Uplifting, bore them in their hands. 

Whereas Claudian, in a fragment upon the wars of the giants, 
has contrived to render this idea of their throwing the mountains, 
which is in itself so grand, burlesque and ridiculous ; by this 
single circumstance, of one of his giants with the mountain Ida 
upon his shoulders, and a river, which flowed from the mountain, 
running down along the giant's back, as he held it up in that 
posture. There is a description too in Virgil, which, I think, is 
censurable, though more slightly, in this respect. It is that of 
the burning mountain iEtna ; a subject certainly very proper to 
be worked up by a poet into a sublime description : 

Horrificis juxta tonat iEtna minis, 

Interdumque atram prorumpit ad aethera nubem, 

Turbine fumantem pieeo, et candente favilla, 

Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera lambit : 

Interdum scopulos, avulsaque viscera montis 

Erigit eructans, liquefactaque saxa sub auras 

Cum gemitu glomerat fundoque exaestuat imo.*—Mn. iii. 571. 

Here, after several magnificent images, the poet concludes with 
personifying the mountain under this figure, " eructans viscera 
cum gemitu," belching up its bowels with a groan ; which, by 
likening the mountain to a sick and drunken person, degrades the 
majesty of the description. It is to no purpose to tell us, that 
the poet here alludes to the fable of the giant Enceladus lying 
under Mount iEtna ; and that he supposes his motions and tos- 
sings to have occasioned the fiery eruptions. He intended the 
description of a sublime object ; and the natural ideas, raised 
by a burning mountain, are infinitely more lofty than the be.ch- 

• The port capacious, and secure from wind, 
Is to the foot of thundering JEtna join'd ; 
,By turns a pitchy cloud she rolls on high, } 

By turns hot embers from her entrails fly, » 

And flakes of mountain flames that lick the sky : \ 
Gft from her bowels massy rocks are thrown, 
And shivered by the force come piecemeal down 
Oft liquid lakes of burning sulphur flow 
Fed from the fiery springs that boil below. — Dryden. 

In this translation of Dryden's, the debasing circumstance to vhWi \ ohieo 
iu »he original, is with propriety omitted '•' 



48 LECTURE IV. 

ings ot any giant, how huge soever. The debasing effect of 
the idea which is here presented, will appear in a stronger light, 
by seeing what figure it makes in a poem of Sir Richard Black- 
more's, who, through a monstrous perversity of taste, has cho- 
sen this for the capital circumstance in his description, and 
thereby (as Dr. Arbuthnot humorously observes, in his Treatise 
on the Art of Sinking) has represented the mountain as in a fit 
of the colic. 

/Etna, and all the burning mountains, find 
Their kindled stores with inbred storms of wind 
Blown up to rage, and roaring out complain, 
As torn with inward gripes and torturing pain ; 
Labouring, they cast their dreadful vomit round, 
And with their melted bowels spread the ground. 

Such instances show how much the sublime depends upon a 
just selection of circumstances ; and with how great care every 
circumstance must be avoided, which, by bordering in the least 
upon the mean, or even upon the gay or the trifling, alters the 
tone of the emotion. 

If it shall now be inquired, what are the proper sources of 
the sublime ? my answer is, That they are to be looked for 
every where in nature. It is not by hunting after tropes, and 
figures, and rhetorical assistances, that we can expect to pro- 
duce it. No : it stands clear, for the most part, of these la- 
boured refinements of art. It must come unsought, if it comes 
at all ; and be the natural offspring of a strong imagination ; 
Est Deus in nobis ; agitante calescimus illo. 

Wherever a great and awful object is presented in nature, or a 
very magnanimous and exalted affection of the human mind is 
displayed; thence, if you catch the impression strongly, and 
exhibit it warm and glowing, you may draw the sublime. 
These are its only proper sources. In judging of any striking 
beauty in composition, whether it is, or is not, to be referred 
to this class, we must attend to the nature of the emotion which 
it raises ; and only, if it be of that elevating, solemn, and awful 
kind, which distinguishes this feeling, we can pronounce it 
sublime. 

From the account which I have given of the nature of the 
sublime, it clearly follows, that it is an emotion which can never 
be long protracted. The mind, by no force of genius, can be 
kept, for any considerable time, so far raised above its common 
tone ; but will, of course, relax into its ordinary situation. 
Neither are the abilities of any human writer sufficient to fur- 



SUBLIMITY IX WRITING. 49 

nish a long continuation of uninterrupted sublime ideas. The 
utmost we can expect is, that this (ire of imagination should 
sometimes flash upon us like lightning from heaven, and then 
disappear. In Homer and Milton, this effulgence of genius 
breaks forth more frequently, and with greater lustre, than in 
most authors. Shakespeare also rises often into the true sub- 
lime. But no author whatever is sublime throughout. Some, 
indeed, there are, who, by a strength and dignity in their con- 
ceptions, and a current of high ideas that runs through their 
whole composition, preserve the reader's mind always in a tone 
nearly allied to the sublime ; for which reason they may, in a 
limited sense, merit the name of continued sublime writers ; and 
in this class we may justly place Demosthenes and Plato. 

As for what is called the sublime style, it is, for the most 
part, a very bad one ; and has no relation whatever to the 
real sublime. Persons are apt to imagine, that magnificent 
words, accumulated epithets, and a certain swelling kind of ex- 
pression, by rising above what, is usual or vulgar, contributes 
to, or even forms, the sublime. Nothing can be more false. 
In all the instances of sublime writing, which I have given, no- 
thing of this kind appears. " God said, let there be Light, and 
there was light." This is striking and sublime. But put it 
into what is commonly called the sublime style : " The Sove- 
reign Arbiter of nature, by the potent energy of a single word, 
commanded the light to exist;" and, as Boileau has well ob- 
served, the style indeed is raised, but the thought is fallen. In 
general, in all good writing, the sublime lies in the thought, not 
in the words ; and when the thought is tndy noble, it will, for 
the most part, clothe itself in a native dignity of language. 
The sublime, indeed, rejects mean, low, or trivial expressions ; 
but it is equally an enemy to such as are turgid. The main se- 
cret of being sublime, is to say great things in few and plain 
words. It will be found to hold, without exception, that the 
most sublime authors are the simplest in their style ; and 
wherever you find a writer, who affects a more than ordinary 
pomp and parade of words, and is always endeavouring to mag- 
nify his subject by epithets, there you may immediately suspect, 
that, feeble in sentiment, he is studying to support himself by 
mere expression. 

The same unfavourable judgment we must pass on all that 
laboured apparatus with which some writers introduce a passage, 
or description, which they intend shall be sublime ; calling on 
their readers to attend, invoking their muse, or breaking forth 

E 



50 LECTURE IV. 

unto general, unmeaning exclamations, concerning the greatness 
terribleness, or majesty of the object which they are to describe 
Mr. Addison, in his Campaign, has fallen into an error of this 
kind, when about to describe the battle of Blenheim 

But, O my Muse ! what numbers wilt thou find 
To sing the furious troops in battle join'd ? 
Methinks, I hear the drum's tumultuous sound, 
The victor's shouts, and dying groans, confound ; &c. 

Introductions of this kind are a forced attempt in a writer to 
spur up himself, and his reader, when he finds his imagination 
begin to flag. It is like taking artificial spirits in order to sup- 
ply the want of such as are natural. By this observation, how- 
ever, I do not mean to pass a general censure on Mr. Addison's 
Campaign, which, in several places, is far from wanting merit ; 
and, in particular, the noted comparison of his hero to the angel 
who rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm, is a truly 
sublime image. 

The faults opposite to the sublime -are chiefly two ; the 
frigid and the bombast. The frigid consists in degrading an 
object, or sentiment, which is sublime in itself, by our mean 
conception of it ; or by our weak, low, and childish description 
of it. This betrays entire absence, or at least great poverty of 
genius. Of this, there are abundance of examples, and these 
commented upon with much humour, in the treatise on the Art 
of Sinking, in Dean Swift's works ; the instances taken chiefly 
from Sir Richard Blackmore. One of these I had occasion al- 
ready to give, in relation to Mount ^3Etna, and it were needless 
to produce any more. The bombast lies in forcing an ordinary 
or trivial object out of its rank, and endeavouring to raise it 
into the sublime ; or in attempting to exalt a sublime object 
beyond all natural and reasonable bounds. Into this error, 
which is but too common, writers of genius may sometimes fall, 
by unluckily losing sight of the true point of the sublime. This 
is also called fustian or rant. Shakespeare, a great but incor- 
rect genius, is not unexceptionable here. Dryden and Lee, in 
their tragedies, abound with it. 

Thus far of the sublime ; of which I have treated fully, be- 
cause it is so capital an excellency in fine writing, and because 
clear and precise ideas on this head are, as far as I know, not 
to be met with in critical writers. 

Before I conclude this lecture, there is one observation 
which I choose to make at this time ; I shall make it once for 
all, and hope it will afterwards be remembered. It is with 



BEAUTY. M 

respect to the instances of faults, or rather blemishes and im- 
perfections, which as I have done in this lecture, I shall here- 
after continue to take, when I can, from writers of reputation. 
I have not the least intention thereby to disparage their cha- 
racter in the general. I shall have other occasions of doing 
equal justice to their beauties. But it is no reflection on any 
human performance, that it is not absolutely perfect. The task 
would be much easier for me to collect instances of faults from 
bad writers. But they would draw no attention, when quoted 
from books which nobody reads. And I conceive, that the 
method which I follow will contribute more to make the best 
authors be read with pleasure, when one properly distinguishes 
their beauties from their faults ; and is led to imitate and ad- 
mire only what is worthy of imitation and admiration. 



LECTURE V 

BEAUTY, AND OTHER PLEASURES OF TASTE. 

As sublimity constitutes a particular character of com- 
position, and forms one of the highest excellencies of eloquence 
and of poetry, it was proper to treat of it at some length. It 
will not be necessary to discuss so particularly all the other 
pleasures that arise from taste, as some of them have less rela- 
tion to our main subject. On beauty only I shall make several 
observations, both as the subject is curious, and as it tends to 
improve taste, and to discover the foundation of several of the 
graces of description and of poetry.* 

Beauty, next to sublimity, affords, beyond doubt, the highest 
pleasure to the imagination. The emotion which it raises, is 
very distinguishable from that of sublimity. It is of a calmer 
kind ; more gentle and soothing ; does not elevate the mind so 
much, but produces an agreeable serenity. Sublimity raises a 
feeling, too violent, as I showed, to be lasting ; the pleasure 
arising from beauty admits of longer continuance. It extends 
also to a much greater variety of objects than sublimity ; to a 
variety indeed so great, that the feelings which beautiful 
objects produce, differ considerably, not in degree only, but 

* See Hutchinson's Enquiry concerning Beauty and Virtue. — Gervard on 
Taste, chap. iii. — Enquiry into the Origin of the Ideas of the Sublime aod Beau- 
tiful. — Elements of Criticism, chap. iii. — Spectator, vol. vi.— Re -.ay on ibb 
Pleasures of Taste. 

p 9 



63 LECTURE \ 

also in kind, from one another. Hence, no word in the language 
is used in a more vague signification than beauty. It is applied 
to almost every external object that pleases the eye, or the ear ; 
to a great number of the graces of writing ; to many dispositions 
of the mind ; nay, to several objects of mere abstract science. 
We talk currently of a beautiful tree or flower; a beautiful 
poem ; a beautiful character ; and a beautiful theorem in 
mathematics. 

Hence we may easily perceive, that, among so great a variety 
of objects, to find out some one quality in which they all agree, 
and which is the foundation of that agreeable sensation they all 
raise, must be a very difficult, if not, more probably, a vain 
attempt. Objects, denominated beautiful, are so different, as 
to please, not in virtue of any one quality common to them 
all, but by means of several different principles in human 
nature. The agreeable emotion which they all raise, is some- 
what of the same nature ; and, therefore, has the common name 
of beauty given to it ; but it is raised by different causes. 

Hypotheses, however, have been framed by ingenious men, 
for assigning the fundamental quality of beauty in all objects. 
In particular, uniformity amidst variety, has been insisted on 
as this fundamental quality. For the beauty of many figures, 
I admit that this accounts in a satisfactory manner. But when 
we endeavour to apply this principle to beautiful objects of 
some other kind, as to colour, for instance, or motion, we shall 
soon find that it has no place. And even in external figured 
objects, it does not hold, that their beauty is in proportion to. 
their mixture of variety with uniformity ; seeing many please us 
as highly beautiful, which have almost no variety at all ; and 
others, which are various to a degree of intricacy. Laying 
systems of this kind, therefore, aside, what I now propose is, to 
give an enumeration of several of those classes of objects in 
which beauty most remarkably appears ; and to point out, as far 
as I can, the separate principles of beauty in each of them. 

Colour affords, perhaps, the simplest instance of beauty, and 
therefore the fittest to begin with. Here neither variety, nor 
uniformity, nor any other principle that I know, can be assigned, 
as the foundation of beauty. We can refer it to no other cause 
but the structure of the eye, which determines us to receive 
certain modifications of the rays of light with more pleasure than 
others. And we see accordingly, that, as the organ of sensation 
varies in different persons, they have their different favourite 
colours. It is probable, that association of ideas has influence. 



BEAUTY. 58 

in some cases, on the pleasure which we receive from colours. 
Green, for instance, may appear more beautiful, by being con- 
nected in our ideas with rural prospects and scenes ; white, with 
innocence ; blue, with the serenity of the sky. Independent of 
associations of this kind, all that we can further observe con- 
cerning colours is, that those chosen for beauty are generally 
delicate rather than glaring. Such are those paintings with 
which nature hath ornamented some of her works, and which art 
strives in vain to imitate ; as the feathers of several kinds of 
birds, the leaves of flowers, and the fine variation of colours 
exhibited by the sky at the rising and setting of the sun. These 
present to us the highest instances of the beauty of colouring ; 
and have accordingly been the favourite subjects of poetical 
description in all countries. 

From colour we proceed to figure, which opens to us forms 
of beauty more complex and diversified. Regularity first occurs 
to be noticed as a source of beauty. By a regular figure, is 
meant, one which we perceive to be formed according to some 
certain rule, and not left arbitrary or loose in the construction 
of its parts. Thus, a circle, a square, a triangle, or a hexagon, 
please the eye by their regularity, as beautiful figures. We must 
not, however, conclude, that all figures please in proportion to 
their regularity; or that regularity is the sole, or the chief 
foundation of beauty in figure. On the contrary, a certain 
graceful variety is found to be a much more powerful principle 
of beauty ; and is therefore studied a great deal more than regu- 
larity, in all works that are designed merely to please the eye. 
I am, indeed, inclined to think, that regularity appears beautiful 
to us, chiefly, if not only, on account of its suggesting the ideas 
of fitness, propriety, and use, which have always a greater con- 
nexion with orderly and proportioned forms, than with those 
which appear not constructed according to any certain rule. It 
is clear that nature, who is undoubtedly the most graceful artist, 
hath, in all her ornamental works, pursued variety, with an 
apparent neglect of regularity. Cabinets, doors, and windows, 
are made after a regular form, in cubes and parallelograms, with 
exact proportion of parts ; and by being so formed they please 
the eye : for this good reason, that, being works of use, they 
are, by such figures, the better suited to the ends for which they 
were designed. But plants, flowers, and leaves, are full of 
variety and diversity. A straight canal is an insipid figure, in 
comparison of the meanders of rivers. Cones and pyramids are 
beautiful ; but trees growing in their natural wildness, are infi- 



51 LECTURE V. 

nitelymore beautiful tlian when trimmedinto pyramids and cones. 
The apartments of a house must be regular in their disposition, 
for the conveniency of its inhabitants ; but a garden, which is 
designed merely for beauty, would be exceedingly disgusting, 
if it had as much uniformity and order in its parts as a dwelling- 
house. 

Mr. Hogarth, in his Analysis of Beauty, has observed, that 
figures bounded by curve lines, are, in general, more beautiful 
than those bounded by straight lines and angles. He pitches 
upon two lines, on which, according to him, the beauty of figure 
principally depends ; and he has illustrated and supported his 
doctrine, by a surprising number of instances. The one is the 
waving line, or a curve bending backwards and forwards, some- 
what in the form of the letter S. This he calls the line of 
beauty ; and slums how often it is found in shells, flowers, and 
such other ornamental works of nature ; as is common also in 
the figures designed by painters and sculptors, for the purpose 
of decoration. The other line, which he calls the line of grace, 
is the former waving curve, twisted round some solid body. 
The curling worm of a common jack is one of the instances he 
gives of it. Twisted pillars, and twisted horns, also exhibit it. 
In all the instances which he mentions, variety plainly appears 
to be so material a principle of beauty, that he seems not to err 
much when he defines the art of drawing pleasing forms to be 
the art of varying well. For the curve line, so much the 
favourite of painters, derives, according to him, its chief advan- 
tage, from its perpetual bending and variation from the stiff 
regularity of the straight line. 

Motion furnishes another source of beauty, distinct from 
figure. Motion of itself is pleasing ; and bodies in motion are, 
" cseteris paribus," preferred to those in rest. It is, however, 
only gentle motion that belongs to the beautiful ; for when it is 
very swift, or very forcible, such as that of a torrent, it partakes 
of the sublime. The motion of a bird gliding through the air, 
is extremely beautiful ; the swiftness with which lightning darts 
through the heavens, is magnificent and astonishing. And here 
it is proper to observe, that the sensations of sublime and 
beautiful are not always distinguished by very distant bounda- 
ries ; but are capable, in several instances, of approaching 
towards each other. Thus, a smooth running stream is one of 
the most beautiful objects in nature : as it swells gradually into 
a great river, the beautiful, by degrees, is lost in the sublime. 
A young tree is a beautiful object ; a spreading ancient oak is a 



BEAUTY. 53 

venerable and a grand one. The calmness of a fine morning is 
beautiful ; the universal stillness of the evening is highly sub- 
lime. But to return to the beauty of motion, it will be found, I 
think, to hold very generally, that motion in a straight line is 
not so beautiful as in an undulating waving direction ; and mo- 
tion upwards is commonly, too, more agreeable than motion 
downwards. The easy curling motion of flame and smoke may 
be instanced, as an object singularly agreeable : and here Mr. 
Hogarth's waving line recurs upon us as a principle of beauty. 
That artist observes very ingeniously, that all the common and 
necessary motions for the business of life are performed by men 
in straight or plain lines ; but that all the graceful and orna- 
mental movements are made in waving lines ; an observation 
not unworthy of being attended to, by all who study the grace 
of gesture and action. 

Though colour, figure, and motion, be separate principles 
of beauty, yet in many beautiful objects they all meet, and 
thereby render the beauty both greater, and more complex. 
Thus, in flowers, trees, animals, we are entertained at once with 
the delicacy of the colour, with the gracefulness of the figure, 
and sometimes also with the motion of the object. Although 
each of these produce a separate agreeable sensation, yet they 
are of such a similar nature, as readily to mix and blend in one 
general perception of beauty, which we ascribe to the whole 
object as its cause ; for beauty is always conceived by us, as 
something residing in the object which raises the pleasant sen- 
sation ; a sort of glory which dwells upon, and invests it. 
Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful objects that 
can any where be found, is presented by a rich natural land- 
scape, where there is a sufficient variety of objects : fields in 
verdure, scattered trees and flowers, running water, and animals 
grazing. If to these be joined some of the productions of art, 
which suit such a scene ; as a bridge which arches over a river, 
smoke rising from cottages in the midst of trees, and the 
distant view of a fine building seen by the rising sun ; we then 
enjoy, in the highest perfection, that gay, cheerful, and plea- 
sant sensation which characterizes beauty. To have an eye 
and a taste formed for catching the peculiar beauties of such 
scenes as these, is a necessary requisite for all who attempt 
poetical description. 

The beauty of the human countenance is more complex than 
any that we have yet considered. It iucludes the beauty of 
colour arising from the delicate shades of the complexion ; and 



5« LECTURE V. 

(lie beauty of figure, arising from the lines which form the dif- 
ferent features of the face. But the chief beauty of the counte- 
nance depends upon a mysterious expression, which it conveys, 
of the qualities of the mind ; of good sense, or good humour ; of 
sprightliness, candour, benevolence, sensibility, or other amiable 
dispositions. How it comes to pass, that a certain conforma- 
tion of features is connected in our idea with certain moral 
qualities ; whether we are taught by instinct or by experience 
to form this connexion, and to read the mind in the counte- 
nance ; belongs not to us now to inquire, nor is, indeed, easy to 
resolve. The fact is certain, and acknowledged, that what gives 
the human countenance its most distinguished beauty, is what is 
called its expression ; or an image, which it is conceived to show 
of internal moral dispositions. 

This leads us to observe, that there are certain qualities of 
the mind, which, whether expressed in the countenance, or by 
words, or by actions, always raise in us a feeling similar to 
that of beauty. There are two great classes of moral qualities ; 
one is of the high and the great virtues, which require extraor- 
dinary efforts; and turn upon dangers and sufferings; as 
heroism, magnanimity, contempt of pleasures, and contempt of 
death. These, as I have observed in a former lecture, excite 
in the spectator an emotion of sublimity and grandeur. The 
other class is generally of the social virtues, and such as are of 
a softer and gentler kind ; as compassion, mildness, friendship, 
and generosity. These raise in the beholder a sensation of 
pleasure, so much akin to that produced by beautiful external 
objects, that, though of a more dignified nature, it may, without 
impropriety, be classed under the same head. 

A species of beauty, distinct from any I have yet mentioned, 
arises from design or art ; or, in other words, from the percep- 
tion of means being adapted to an end ; or the parts of any 
thing being well fitted to answer the design of the whole. 
When, in considering the structure of a tree or a plant, we ob- 
serve how all the parts, the roots, the stem, the bark, and the 
leaves, are suited to the growth and nutriment of the whole: 
much more when we survey all the parts and members of a 
living animal ; or when we examine any of the curious works of 
art, such as a clock, a ship, or any nice machine ; the pleasure 
which we have in the survey, is wholly founded on this sense o« 
beauty. It is altogether different from the perception of beauty 
produced by colour, figure, variety, or any of the causes formerly 
mentioned. When I look at a watch, for instance, the case of 



BEAtrrr. 57 

it, if finely engraved, and of curious workmanship, strikes me as 
beautiful in the former sense ; bright colour, exquisite polish, 
figures finely raised and turned. But when I examine the spring 
and the wheels, and praise the beauty of the internal machinery ; 
my pleasure then arises wholly from the view of that admirable 
art, with which so many various and complicated parts are 
made to unite for one purpose. 

This sense of beauty, in fitness and design, has an extensive 
influence over many of our ideas. It is the foundation of the 
beauty which we discover in the proportion of doors, windows, 
arches, pillars, and all the orders of architecture. Let the or- 
naments of a building be ever so fine and elegant in themselves, 
yet if they interfere with this sense of fitness and design, they 
lose their beauty, and hurt the .eye like disagreeable objects. 
Twisted columns, for instance, are undoubtedly ornamental ; but 
as they have an appearance of weakness, they always displease, 
when they are made use of to support any part of a building 
that is massy, and that seems to require a more substantial 
prop. We cannot look upon any work whatever without being 
led, by a natural association of ideas, to think of its end and 
design, and of course to examine the proprietyof its parts, in 
relation to this design and end. When their propriety is clearly 
discerned, the work seems always to have some beauty ; but 
when there is a total want of propriety, it never fails of appear- 
ing deformed. Our sense of fitness and design, therefore, is so 
powerful, and holds so high a rank among our perceptions, as 
to regulate, in a great measure, our other ideas of beauty : an 
observation which I the rather make, as it is of the utmost im- 
portance, that all who study composition should carefully attend 
to it. For in an epic poem, a history, an oration, or any work 
of genius, we always require, as we do in other works, a fitness, 
or adjustment of means, to the end which the author is supposed 
to have in vieAV. Let his descriptions be ever so rich, or his 
figures ever so elegant, yet, if they are out of place, if they are 
not proper parts of that whole, if they suit not the main design, 
they lose all their beauty ; nay, from beauties they are converted 
into deformities. Such power has our sense of fitness and con- 
gruity to produce a total transformation of an object whose ap- 
pearance otherwise would have been beautiful. 

After having mentioned so many various species of beauty, 
it now only remains to take notice of beauty as it is applied to 
writing or discourse ; a term commonly used in a sense altofc'j- 
ther loose and undetermined. For it is applied, to all that 



58 LECTURE V. 

pleases, either in style or in sentiment, from whatever principle 
that pleasure flows ; and a beautiful poem or oration means, in 
common language, no other than a good one, or one well com- 
posed. In this sense, it is plain, the word is altogether indefinite, 
and points at no particular species or kind of beauty. There is, 
however, another sense, somewhat more definite, in which beau- 
ty of writing characterises a particular manner ; when it is used 
to signify a certain grace and amenity, in the turn either of style 
or sentiment, for which some authors have been peculiarly dis- 
tinguished. In this sense, it denotes a manner neither remark- 
ably sublime, nor vehemently passionate, nor uncommonly spark- 
ling ; but such as raises in the reader an emotion of the gentle 
placid kind, similar to what is raised by the contemplation of 
beautiful objects in nature ; which neither lifts the mind very 
high, nor agitates it very much, but diffuses over the imagina- 
tion an agreeable and pleasing serenity. Mr. Addison is a wri- 
ter altogether of this character ; and is one of the most proper 
and precise examples that can be given of it. Fenelon, the au- 
thor of the Adventures of Telemachus, may be given as another 
example. Virgil too, though very capable of rising on occa- 
sions into the sublime, yet, in his general manner, is distin- 
guished by the character of beauty and grace rather than of sub- 
limity. Among orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful than 
Demosthenes, whose genius led him wholly towards vehemence 
and strength. 

This much it is sufficient to have said upon the subject of 
beauty. We have traced it through a variety of forms; as 
next to sublimity, it is the most copious source of the pleasures 
of taste ; and as the consideration of the different appearances, 
and principles of beauty, tends to the improvement of taste in 
many subjects. 

But it is not only by appearing under the forms of sublime 
or beautiful, that objects delight the imagination. From se- 
veral other principles, also, they derive their power of giving 
it pleasure. 

Novelty, for instance, has been mentioned by Mr. Addison 
and by every writer on this subject. An object which has no 
merit to recommend it, except its being uncommon or new, by 
means of this quality alone, produces in the mind a vivid and an 
agreeable emotion. Hence that passion of curiosity, which pre- 
vails so generally among mankind. Objects and ideas which 
have been long familiar, make too faint an impression to give an 
agreeable exercise to our faculties. New and strange objects 



IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. 59 

rouse the mind from its dormant state, by giving it a quick and 
pleasing impulse. Hence, in a great measure, the entertainment 
afforded us by fiction and romance. The emotion raised by no- 
velty is of a more lively and pungent nature, than that produced 
by beauty ; but much shorter in its continuance. For if the ob- 
ject have in itself no charms to lu,ld our attention, the shining 
gloss thrown upon it by novelty soon wears off. 

Besides novelty, imitation is another source of pleasure to 
taste. This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms the secondary 
pleasures of imagination ; which form, doubtless, a very extensive 
class. For all imitation affords some pleasure ; not only the 
imitation of beautiful or great objects, by recalling the original 
ideas of beauty or grandeur which such objects themselves exhi- 
bited ; but even objects which have neither beauty nor grandeur, 
nay, some which are terrible or deformed, please us in a secon- 
dary or represented view. 

The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to taste. 
There is no agreeable sensation we receive, either from beauty 
or sublimity, but what is capable of being heightened by the 
power of musical sound. Hence the delight of poetical num- 
bers ; and even of the more concealed and looser measures of 
prose. Wit, humour, and ridicule, likewise open a variety 
of pleasures to taste, quite distinct from any that we have yet 
considered. 

At present it is not necessary to pursue any further the sub- 
ject of the pleasures of taste. I have opened some of the gene- 
ral principles ; it is time now to make the application to our 
ehief subject. If the question be put, To what class of those 
pleasures of taste which I have enumerated, that pleasure is to 
be referred, which we receive from poetry, eloquence, or fine 
writing ? My answer is, Not to any one, but to them all. This 
singular advantage writing and discourse possess, that they en- 
compass so large and rich a field on all sides, and have power 
to exhibit, in great perfection, not a single set of objects only, 
Dut almost the whole of those which give pleasure to taste and 
imagination : whether that pleasure arise from sublimity, from 
beauty in its different forms, from design and art, from moral 
sentiment, from novelty, from harmony, from wit, humour, and 
ridicule. To whichsoever of these the peculiar bent of a per- 
son's taste lies, from some writer or other, he has it always in 
his power to receive the gratification of it. 

Now, this high power which eloquence and poetry possess, 
of supplying taste and imagination with such a wide circle of 



60 LECTURE V. 

pleasures, they derive altogether from their having a greater 
capacity of imitation and description than is possessed by any 
other art. Of all the means which human ingenuity has con • 
trived for recalling the images of real objects, and awakening, 
by representation, simila* emotions to those which are raised 
by the original, none is so full and extensive as that which is 
executed by words and writing. Through the assistance of this 
happy invention there is nothing, either in the natural or moral 
world, but what can be represented and set before the mind, in 
colours very strong and lively. Hence it is usual, among criti- 
cal writers, to speak of discourse as the chief of all the imitative 
or mimetic arts ; they compare it with painting and with sculp 
ture, and in many respects prefer it justly before them. 

This style was first introduced by Aristotle, in his Poetics, 
and, since his time, has acquired a general currency among 
modern authors. But, as it is of consequence to introduce as 
much precision as possible into critical language, I must ob- 
serve, that this manner of speaking is not accurate. Neither 
discourse in general, nor poetry in particular, can be called 
altogether imitative arts. We must distinguish betwixt imita- 
tion and description, which are ideas that should not be con- 
founded. Imitation is performed by means of somewhat that 
has a natural likeness aud resemblance to the thing imitated, 
and of consequence is understood by all ; such are statues and 
pictures. Description, again, is the raising in the mind the 
conception of an object by means of some arbitrary or instituted 
symbols, understood only by those who agree in the institution 
of them ; such are words and writing. Words have no natural 
resemblance to the ideas or objects which they are employed to 
signify ; but a statue or a picture has a natural likeness to the 
original : and, therefore, imitation and description differ con- 
siderably, in their nature, from each other. 

As far, indeed, as a poet introduces into his work persons 
actually speaking, and, by the words which he puts into their 
mouths, represents the discourse which they might be supposed 
to hold, so far his art may more accurately be called imitative ; 
and this is the case in all dramatic composition. But in narra- 
tive or descriptive works, it can with no propriety be called so. 
Who, for instance, would call Virgil's description of a tempest, 
in the first iEneid, an imitation of a storm ? If we heard of the 
imitation of a battle, we might naturally think of some mock 
fight, or representation of a battle on the stage, but would never 
apprehend that it meant one of Homer's descriptions, in the 



RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 61 

Iliad. I admit, at the same time, that imitation and description 
agree in their principal effect, of recalling, by external signs, 
the ideas of things which we do not see. But, though in this 
they coincide, yet it should not be forgotten that the terms 
themselves are not synonymous, that they import different 
means of effecting the same end, and of course make different 
impressions on the mind.* 

Whether we consider poetry in particular, and discourse in 
general, as imitative or descriptive, it is evident that their whole 
power in recalling the impressions of real objects is derived 
from the significancy of words. As their excellency flows alto- 
gether from this source, we must, in order to make way for fur- 
ther inquiries, begin at this fountain head. I shall, therefore, in 
the next lecture, enter upon the consideration of language : of 
the origin, the progress, and construction of which, I purpose 
to treat at some length. 



LECTURE VI. 

RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 

Having finished my observations on the pleasures of 
taste, which were meant to be introductory to the principal sub- 
ject of these lectures, I now begin to treat of language, which 
is the foundation of the whole power of eloquence. This will 
lead to a considerable discussion ; and there are few subjects 
belonging to polite literature, which more merit such a discus- 
sion. I shall first give a history of the rise and progress of 
language in several particulars, from its early to its more ad- 
vanced periods ; which shall be followed by a similar history of 
the rise and progress of writing. I shall next give some account 

• Though, in the execution of particular parts, poetry is certainly descriptive 
rather than imitative, yet there is a qualified sense in which poetry, in the gene 
ral, may be termed an imitative art. The subject of the poet (as Dr. Gerrard has 
shown, in the Appendix to his Essay on Taste) is intended to be an imitation, not 
of things really existing, but of the course of nature, that is, a feigned represen- 
tation of such events, or such scenes, as, though they never had a being, yet 
roiqht have existed ; and which, therefore, by their probability, bear a resem- 
blance to nature. It was probably in this sense that Aristotle termed poetry a 
mimetic art. How far either the imitation or the description which poetry em- 
ploys is superior to the imitative powers of painting and music, is well shown by 
Mr. Harris, in his Treatise on Music, Painting, and Poetry. The chief advantage 
which poetry, or discourse in general, enjoys, is that whereas, by the nature of 
his art, the painter is confined to the representation of a single moment, writing 
and discourse can trace a transaction through its whole progress. That moment. 



62 LECTURE VI. 

of the construction of language, or the principles of universal 
grammar ; and shall, lastly, apply these observations more par- 
ticularly to the English tongue.* 

Language, in general, signifies the expression of our ideas 
by certain articulate sounds, which are used as the signs of 
those ideas. By articulate sounds, are meant those modula- 
tions of simple voice, or of sound emitted from the thorax, which 
are formed by means of the mouth and its several organs, the 
teeth, the tongue, the lips, and the palate. How far there is 
any natural connexion between the ideas of the mind and the 
sounds emitted, will appear from what I have afterwards to offer. 
But, as the natural connexion can, upon any system, affect only 
a small part of the fabric of language, the connexion between 
words and ideas may, in general, be considered as arbitrary and 
conventional, owing to the agreement of men among themselves : 
the clear proof of which is, that different nations have different 
languages, or a different set of articulate sounds, which they 
have chosen for communicating their ideas 

This artificial method of communicating thought, we now 
behold carried to the highest perfection. Language is become 
a vehicle by which the most delicate and refined emotions of one 
mind can be transmitted, or, if we may so speak, transfused into 
another. Not only are names given to all objects around us, by 
which means an easy and speedy intercourse is carried on for 
providing the necessaries of life, but all the relations and differ- 



indeed, which the painter pitches upon for the subject of his picture, he may be 
said to exhibit with more advantage than the poet or the orator ; inasmuch as he 
sets before us, in one view, all the minute concurrent circumstances of the event 
which happens in one individual point of time, as they appear in nature ; while 
discourse is obliged to exhibit them in succession, and by means of a detail, 
which is in danger of becoming tedious, in order to be clear, or if not tedious, is 
in danger of being obscure. But to that point of time which he has chosen, 
the painter being entirely confined, he cannot exhibit various stages of the same 
action or event ; and he is subject to this further defect, that he can only exhibit 
objects as they appear to the eye, and can very imperfectly delineate characters 
and sentiments, which are the noblest subjects of imitation or description. The 
power of representing these, with full advantage, gives a high superiority to dis- 
course and writing above all other imitative arts. 

* See Dr. Adam Smith's Dissertation on the Formation of Languages. — 
Treatise of the Origin and Progress of Language, in 3 vols.— Harris's Hermes, 
or a Philosophical Inquiry concerning Language and Universal Grammar. — 
Ess sur l'Origine des Connoissances Humaines, par l'Abbe Condillac— 
Principes de Grammaire, par Marsais. — Grammaire Generale et Raisonnee. 
•~Trait6 de la Formation Mechanique des Langues, parle President de Brosses. 
— Discours sur l'Inegalit6 parmi les Homines, par Rousseau. — Gramniaiie 
Generale, par Beausee, — Principes de.la Traduction par Batteux.— Warburton's 
Divine Legation of Moses, vol. iii. — Sanctii Minerva, cum notis Perizonii. — Le 
Viais Principes de la Langue Francoise, par l'Abbe Girard. 



RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 03 

ences among these objects are minutely marked, the invisible 
sentiments of the mind are described, the most abstract notions 
and conceptions are rendered intelligible, and all the ideas which 
science can discover, or imagination create, are known by their 
proper names. Nay, language has been carried so far, as to be 
made an instrument of the most refined luxury. Not resting in 
mere perspicuity, we require ornament also ; not satisfied with 
having the conceptions of others made known to us, we make a 
further demand, to have them so decked and adorned as to 
entertain our fancy ; and this demand it is found very possible 
to gratify. In this state we now find language. In this state 
it has been found among many nations for some thousand years. 
The object is become familiar ; and, like the expanse of the 
firmament, and other great objects, which we are accustomed to 
behold, we behold it without wonder. 

But carry your thoughts back to the first dawn of language 
among men. Reflect upon the feeble beginnings from which it 
must have arisen, and upon the many and great obstacles which 
it must have encountered in its progress ; and you will find 
reason for the highest astonishment on viewing the height which 
it has now attained. We admire several of the inventions of 
art ; we plume ourselves on some discoveries which have been 
made in latter ages, serving to advance knowledge, and to 
render life comfortable ; we speak of them as the boast of human 
reason. But certainly no in vent ion is entitled to any such 7 
degree of admiration as that of language ; which, too, must have 
been the product of the first and rudest ages, if, indeed, it can 
be considered as a human invention at all 

Think of the circumstances of mankind when languages be- 
gan to be formed. They were a wandering scattered race ; no 
society among them except families ; and the family society too 
very imperfect, as their method of living by hunting or pastur- 
age must have separated them frequently from one another. In 
this situation, when so much divided, and their intercourse so 
rare, how could any one set of sounds, or words, be generally 
agreed on as the signs of their ideas ? Supposing that a few, 
whom chance or necessity threw together, agreed by some means 
upon certain signs., yet by what authority could these be propa- 
gated among other tribes or families, so as to spread and grow 
up into a language ? One would think that, in order to any Ian 
guage fixing and extending itself, men must have been pre- 
viously gathered together in considerable numbers ; society 
must have been already far advanced ; and yet, on the other 



til LECTURE VI. 

hand, there seems to have been an absolute necessity for speech, 
previous to the formation of society. For, by what bond could 
any multitude of men be kept together, or be made to join in 
the prosecution of any common interest, until once, by the inter- 
vention of speech, they could communicate their wants and 
intentions to one another ? So that, either how society could 
form itself previously to language, or how words could rise into 
a language previously to society formed, seem to be points 
attended with equal difficulty. And when we consider, further, 
that curious analogy which prevails in the construction of almost 
all languages, and that deep and subtile logic on which they ar6 
founded, difficulties increase so much upon us, on all hands, that 
there seems to be no small reason for referring the first origin 
of all language to divine teaching or inspiration. 

But supposing language to have a divine original, we can- 
not, however, suppose that a perfect system of it was all at once 
given to man. It is much more natural to think, that God 
taught our first parents only such language as suited their 
present occasions ; leaving them, as he did in other things, to 
enlarge and improve it as their future necessities should require. 
Consequently, those first rudiments of speech must have been 
poor and narrow ; and we are at full liberty to inquire in what 
manner, and by what steps, language advanced to the state in 
which we now find it. The history which I am to give of this 
progress will suggest several things, both curious in themselves, 
and useful in our future disquisitions. 

If we should suppose a period before any words were in- 
vented or known, it is clear, that men could have no other 
method of communicating to others what they felt, than by the 
cries of passion, accompanied with such motions and gestures 
as were further expressive of passion. For these are the only 
signs which nature teaches all men, and which are understood 
by all. One who saw another going into some place where he 
himself had been frightened or exposed to danger, and who 
sought to warn his neighbour of the danger, could contrive no 
other way of doing so, than by uttering those cries, and making 
those gestures, which are the signs of fear ; just as two men, at 
this day, would endeavour to make themselves be understood by 
each other, who should be thrown together on a desolate island, 
ignorant of each other's language. Those exclamations, there- 
fore, which by grammarians are called interjections, uttered in 
a strong and passionate manner, were, beyond doubt, the first 
elements or beginnings of speech. 



RISE AND PROGRESS 01- LANGUAGE. 65 

AVhen more enlarged communication became necessary, and 
names began to be assigned to objects, in what manner can we 
suppose men to have proceeded in the assignation of names, or 
invention of words ? Undoubtedly, by imitating, as much as 
they could, the nature of the object which they named, by the 
sound of the name which they gave to it. As a painter, who 
would represent grass, must employ a green colour ; so, in the 
beginnings of language, one giving a name to any thing harsh or 
boisterous, would v.f course employ a harsh or boisterous sound. 
He could not do otherwise, if he meant to excite in the hearer 
the idea of that thing which he sought to name. To suppose 
words invented, or names given to things, in a manner purely 
arbitrary, without any ground or reason, is to suppose an effect 
without a cause. There must have always been some motive 
which led to the assignation of one name rather than another ; 
and we can conceive no motive which would more generally ope- 
rate upon men in their first efforts towards language, than a 
desire to paint, by speech, the objects which they named, in a 
manner more or less complete, according as the vocal organs 
had it in their power to effect this imitation. 

Wherever objects were to be named, in which sound, noise, 
or motion, were concerned, the imitation by words was abun- 
dantly obvious. Nothing was more natural than to imitate, by 
the sound of the voice, the quality of the sound or noise which 
any external object made ; and to form its name accordingly. 
Thus, in all languages, we find a multitude of words that are 
evidently constructed upon this principle. A certain bird is 
termed the cuckoo, from the sound which it emits. When one 
sort of wind is said to whistle, and another to roar ; when a ser- 
pent is said to hiss ; a fly to buz, and falling timber to crash ; 
when a stream is said to flow, and hail to rattle ; the analogy be- 
tween the word and the thing signified is plainly discernible. 

In the names of objects which address the sight only, where 
neither noise nor motion are concerned, and still more in the 
terms appropriated to moral ideas, this analogy appears to fail 
Many learned men, however, have been of opinion, that though, 
in such cases, it becomes more obscure, yet it is not altogether 
lost ; but that throughout the radical words of all languages 
there may be traced some degree of correspondence with the 
object signified. With regard to moral and intellectual ideas, 
they remark, that, in every language, the terms significant of 
them are derived from the names of sensible objects to which 

F 



<W LECTURE VI. 

they are conceived to be analogous ; and with regard to sensible 
objects pertaining merely to sight, they remark, that their most 
distinguishing qualities have certain radical sounds appropriated 
to the expression of them, in a great variety of languages. 
Stability, for instance, fluidity, hollowness, smoothness, gentle- 
ness, violence, &c. they imagine to be painted by the sound of 
certain letters or syllables, which have some relation to those 
different states of visible objects, on account of an obscure re- 
semblance which the organs of voice are capable of assuming to 
such external qualities. By this natural mechanism, they 
imagine all languages to have been at first constructed, and the 
roots of their capital words formed.* 

As far as this system is founded in truth, language appears 
to be not altogether arbitrary in its origin. Among the ancient 
Stoic and Platonic philosophers, it was a question much agi- 
tated, " Utrum nomina rerum sint natura, an impositione ? 
$vau rj $£<xu ;" by which they meant, whether words were merely 
conventional symbols ; of the rise of which no account could be 
given, except the pleasure of the first inventors of language ? 
or, whether there was some principle in nature that led to the 

* The author, who has carried his speculations on this snbject the furthest, is the 
President de Brosses, in his " Traite de la Formation Meehanique des Langues." 
Some of the radical letters or syllables which he supposes to carry this expressive 
power in most known languages are, St, to signify stability or rest ; Fl, to denote 
fluency ; CI, a gentle descent ; R, what relates to rapid motion ; C, to cavity or 
hollowness, &c. A century before his time, Dr. Wallis, in his Grammar of the 
English Language, had taken notice of these significant roots, and represented it 
as a peculiar excellency of our tongue, that, beyond all others, it expressed the 
nature of the objects which it named, by employing sounds sharper, softer, 
weaker, stronger, more obscure, or more stridulous, according as the idea which 
is to be suggested requires. He gives various examples. Thus ; words formed 
upon St, always denote firmness and strength, analogous to the Latin sto ; as, 
stand, stay, staff, stop, stout, steady, stake, stamp, stallion, stately, &c. Words 
beginning with Str, intimate violent force, and energy, analogous to the Greek 
arpwtm/ii; as, strive, strength, strike, stripe, stress, struggle, stride, stretch, 
strip, &c. Thr, implies forcible motion; as, throw, throb, thrust, through, 
threaten, thraldom. Wr, obliquity or distortion ; as, wry, wrest, wreath, wrestle, 
wring, wrong, wrangle, wrath, wrack, &c. Sw, silent agitation, or lateral mo- 
tion ; as, sway, swing, swerve, sweep, swim. SI, a gentle, fall, or less observable 
motion ; as, slide, slip, sly, slit, slow, slack, sling. Sp, dissipation or expansion ; 
as, spread, sprout, sprinkle, split, spill, spring. Terminations in ash, indicate 
something acting nimbly and sharply; as, crash, gash, rash, flash, lash, slash. 
Terminations in ush, something acting more obtusely and dully ; as crush, brush, 
hush, gush, blush. The learned author produces a great many more examples of 
the same kind, which seem to leave no doubt, that the analogies of sound have 
had some influence on the formation of words. At the same time, in all specula- 
tions of this kind, there is so much room for fancy to operate, that they ought to 
be adopted with much caution in forming any general theory. 



RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 07 

assignation of particular names to particular objects ? and those 
of the Platonic school favoured the latter opinion.* 

This principle, however, of a natural relation between words 
and objects, can only be applied to language in its most simple 
and primitive state. Though, in every tongue, some remains 
of it, as I have shown above, can be traced, it were utterly in 
vain to search for it throughout the whole construction of any 
modern language. As the multitude of terms increase in every 
nation, and the immense field of language is filled up, words, by 
a thousand fanciful and irregular methods of derivation and com- 
position, come to deviate widely from the primitive character of 
their roots, and to lose all analogy or resemblance in sound to 
the things signified. In this state we now find language. Words, 
as we now employ them, taken in the general, may be considered 
as symbols, not as imitations ; as arbitary, or instituted, not na- 
tural signs of ideas * But there can be no doubt, I think, that 
language> the nearer we remount to its rise among men, will be 
found to partake more of a natural expression. As it could be 
originally formed on nothing but imitation, it would, in its prim- 
itive state, be more picturesque : much more barren indeed, and 
narrow in the circle of its terms, than now; but, as far as it 
went, more expressive by sound of the thing signified. This. 
then, may be assumed as one character of the first state, or be- 
ginnings, of language among every savage tribe. 

A second character of language, in its early state, is drawn 
from the manner in which words were at first pronounced, or 
uttered, by men. Interjections, I showed, or passionate exclama- 
tions, were the first elements of speech. Men laboured to 
communicate their feelings to one another, by those expressive 
cries and gestures which nature taught them. After words, or 
names of objects, began to be invented, this mode of speaking, 
by natural signs, could not be all at once disused. For lan- 

• Vid. Plat, in Cratylo. " Nomina verbaque non positu fortuito, sed quadatn 
vi et ratione naturae facta esse, P. Nigidius in Gramraaticis Commentariis docet ; 
rem sane in philosophise dissertationibus celebrem. In earn rem multa argu- 
menta dicit, curvideri possint verba esse naturalia, magis quam arbitraria. Vos, 
inquit, cum dicimus, motu quodam oris conveniente, cum ipsius verbi demonstra- 
tione utimur, et labias sensim priinores emovemus, ac spiritum atque animam 
porro versuin, et ad eos, quibus consermocinamur intendimus. At contra cum 
dicimus Nos, nequc profuso intentoque flatu vocis, neque projectis labiis pronun- 
ciamus ; sed et spiritum et labias quasi intra nosmet ipsos coercemus. Hoc fit 
idem et ineo quod dicimus, tu, et ego, et mild, et tibi. Nam sicuti cum adnuimus 
et abnuimus, motus quidam ille vel capitis, vel oculorum, a natura rei quam 
significat, non abhorret ; ita in his vocibus quasi gestus quidam oris et spiritus 
naturalis est. Eadem ratio est in Graecis quoque vocibus quam esse in nostris 
animadvertimus."— A. Gellius, Noct. Atticae, lib. x. cap. 4. 

p 2 



68 LECTURE VI. 

guage in its infancy, must have been extremely barren ; arid 
there certainly was a period, among all rude nations, when con- 
versation was carried on by a very few words, intermixed with 
many exclamations and earnest gestures. The small stock of 
words which men as yet possessed, rendered these helps abso- 
lutely necessary for explaining their conceptions ; and rude, un- 
cultivated men, not having always at hand even the few words 
which they knew, would natu .illy labour to make themselves 
understood, by varying their tones of voice, and accompanying 
their tones with the most significant gesticulations they could 
make. At this day, when persons attempt to speak in any 
language which they possess imperfectly, they have recourse to 
all these supplemental methods, in order to render themselves 
more intelligible. The plan, too, according to which I have 
shown, that language was originally constructed, upon resem- 
blance or analogy, as far as it was possible, to the thing signi- 
fied, would naturally lead men to utter their words with more 
emphasis and force, as long as language was a sort of painting 
by means of sound. For all these reasons this may be assumed 
as a principle, that the pronunciation of the earliest languages 
was accompanied with more gesticulation, and with more and 
greater inflexions of voice, than what we now use ; there was 
more action in it ; and it was more upon a crying or singing 
tone. 

To this manner of speaking, necessity first gave rise. But 
we must observe, that, after this necessity had in a great mea- 
sure, ceased, by language becoming, in process of time, more 
extensive and copious, the ancient manner of speech still sub- 
sisted among many nations ; and what had arisen from necessity 
continued to be used for ornament. Wherever there was much 
fire and vivacity in the genius of nations, they were naturally 
inclined to a mode of conversation which gratified the imagina- 
tion so much ; for, an imagination which is warm is always 
prone to throw both a great deal of action, and a variety of 
tones, into discourse. Upon this principle, Dr. Warburton ac- 
counts for so much speaking by action, as we find among the 
Old Testament, prophets ; as when Jeremiah breaks the potter's 
vessel, in sight of the people ; throws a book into the Euphra- 
tes ; puts on bonds and yokes ; and carries out his household 
stuff; all which, he imagines, might be significant modes of ex- 
pression, very natural in those ages, when men were accustom- 
ed to explain themselves so much by actions and gestures. In 
Uke manner, among the Northern American tribes, certain mo- 



RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. GO 

tions and actions were found to be much used, as explanatory 
of their meaning, on all their great occasions of intercourse with 
each other ; and by the belts and strings of wampum, which 
they gave and received, they were accustomed to declare their 
meaning, as much as by their discourses. 

With regard to inflexions of voice, these are so natural, that 
to some nations, it has appeared easier to express different ideas 
by varying the tone with which they pronounced the same word, 
than to contrive words for all their ideas. This is the practice 
of the Chinese in particular. The number of words in their 
language is said not to be great ; but, in speaking, they vary 
each of their words on no less than five different tones, by 
which they make the same word signify five different things. 
This must give a great appearance of music or singing to their 
speech. For those inflexions of voice which, in the infancy of 
language, were no more than harsh or dissonant cries, must, as 
language gradually polishes, pass into more smooth and musi- 
cal sounds : and hence is formed what we call the prosody of a 
language. 

It is remarkable, and deserves attention, that both in the 
Greek and Roman languages, this musical and gesticulating 
pronunciation was retained in a very high degree. Without 
having attended to this, we shall be at a loss in understanding 
several passages of the classics, which relate to the public, 
speaking and the theatrical entertainments of the ancients. It 
appears, from many circumstances, that the prosody both of the 
Greeks and Romans was carried much further than ours ; or 
that they spoke with more, and stronger, inflexions of voice 
than we use. The quantity of their syllables was much mora 
fixed than in any of the modern languages, and rendered much 
more sensible to the ear in pronouncing them. Besides quanti- 
ties, or the difference of short and long, accents were placed 
upon, most of their syllables, the acute, grave, and circumflex • 
the use of which accents we have now entirely lost, but which, 
we know, determined the speaker's voice to rise or fall. Our 
modern pronunciation must have appeared to them a lifeless 
monotony. The declamation of their orators, and the pronun- 
ciation of their actors upon the stage, approached to the nature 
of a recitative in music ; was capable of being marked in notes, 
and supported with instruments ; as several learned men have 
fully proved. And if this was the case, as they have shown, 
among the Romans, the Greeks, it is well known, were still a 
more musical people than the Romans, and carried their atten- 



70 LECTlfRL VI. 

tion to tone and pronunciation much further in every public ex- 
hibition. Aristotle, in his Poetics, considers the music of 
tragedy as one of its chief and most essential parts. 

The case was parallel with regard to gestures : for strong 
tones, and animated gestures, we may observe, always go to- 
gether. Action is treated of by all the ancient critics, as the 
chief quality in every public speaker. The action, both of the 
orators and the players in Greece and Rome, was far more 
vehement than what we are accustomed to. Roscius would have 
seemed a madman to us. Gesture was of such consequence 
upon the ancient stage, that there is reason for believing, that, 
on some occasions, the speaking and the acting part were 
divided, which, according to our ideas, would form a strange 
exhibition ; one player spoke the words in the proper tones, 
while another performed the corresponding motions and ges- 
tures. We learn from Cicero, that it was a contest between 
him and Roscius, whether he could express a sentiment in a 
greater variety of phrases, or Rosciu3 in a greater variety of 
intelligible significant gestures. At last gesture came to engross 
the stage wholly ; for, under the reigns of Augustus and Tibe- 
rius, the favourite entertainment of the public was the panto- 
mime, which was carried on entirely by mute gesticulation 
The people were moved, and wept at it, as much as at trage- 
dies ; and the passion for it became so strong, that laws were 
obliged to be made, for restraining the senators from studying 
the pantomime art. Now, though in declamations and theatrical 
exhibitions, both tone and gesture were, doubtless, carried much 
further than in common discourse 5 yet public speaking, of any 
kind, must, in every country, bear some proportion to the man- 
ner that is used in conversation ; and such public entertainments 
as I have now mentioned could never have been relished by a 
nation, whose tones and gestures, in discourse, were as languid 
as ours. 

When the barbarians spread themselves over the Roman 
empire, these more phlegmatic nations did not retain the accents, 
the tones, and gestures, which necessity at first introduced, and 
custom and fancy afterwards so long supported, in the Greek 
and Roman languages. As the Latin tongue was lost in their 
idioms, so the character of speech and pronunciation began to 
be changed throughout Europe. Nothing of the same attention 
was paid to the music of language, or to the pomp of declama- 
tion, and theatrical action. Both conversation and public speak- 
ing became more simple and plain, such as we now find it ; with- 



RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 71 

out that enthusiastic mixture of tones and gestures which dis- 
tinguished the ancient nations. At the restoration of letters, 
the genius of language was so much altered, and the manners of 
the people had become so different, that it was no easy matter 
to understand what the ancients had said, concerning their 
declamations and public spectacles. Our plain manner of speak 
ing, in these northern countries, expresses the passions witl 
sufficient energy, to move those who are not accustomed to any 
more vehement manner. But, undoubtedly, more varied tones, 
and more animated motions, carry a natural expression of 
warmer feelings. Accordingly, in different modern languages, 
the prosody of speech partakes more of music, in proportion to 
the liveliness and sensibility of the people. A Frenchman both 
varies his accents, and gesticulates while he speaks, much more 
than an Englishman. An Italian, a great deal more than either. 
Musical pronunciation and expressive gesture are, to this day, 
the distinction of Italy. 

From the pronunciation of language, let us proceed, in the 
third place, to consider the style of language in its most early 
state, and its progress in this respect also. As the manner in 
which men at first uttered their words, and maintained conver- 
sation, was strong and expressive, enforcing their imperfectly 
expressed ideas by cries and gestures ; so the language which 
they used could be no other than full of figures and metaphors, 
not correct indeed, but forcible and picturesque. 

We are apt, upon a superficial view, to imagine that those 
modes of expression which are called figures of speech, are 
among the chief refinements of speech, not invented till after 
language had advanced to its later periods, and mankind were 
brought into a polished state ; and that, then, they were devised 
by orators and rhetoricians* I The contrary of this is the truth. 
Mankind never employed so many figures of speech, as when 
they had hardly any words for expressing their meaning. ( 

For, first, the want of proper names for every object obliged 
them to use one name for many ; and, of course, to expres them- 
selves by comparisons, metaphors, allusions, and all those sub- 
stituted forms of speech which render language figurative. Next, 
as the objects with which they were most conversant, were the 
sensible, material objects around them, names would be given to 
those objects long before words were invented for signifying the 
dispositions of the mind, or any sort of moral and intellectual 
ideas. Hence, the early language of men being entirely made 
up of words descriptive of sensible objects, it became, of ne- 



72 LECTURE VI. 

cessity, extremely metaphorical. For, to signify any desire or 
passion, or any act or feeling of the mind, they had no precise 
expression which was appropriated to that purpose, but were 
under a necessity of painting the emotion, or passion, which they 
felt, by allusion to those sensible objects which had most rela- 
tion to it, and which could render it, in some sort, visible to 
others. 

But it was not necessity alone, that gave rise to this figured 
style. Other circumstances also, at the commencement of 
language, contributed to it. In the infancy of all societies, men 
are much under the dominion of imagination and passion. They 
live scattered and dispersed; they are unacquainted with the 
course of things ; they are, every day, meeting with new and 
strange objects. Fear and surprise, wonder, and astonishment, 
are their most frequent passions. Their language will necessarily 
partake of this character of their minds. They will be prone 
to exaggeration and hyperbole. They will be given to describe 
every thing with the strongest colours, and most vehement 
expressions ; infinitely more than men living in the advanced 
and cultivated periods of society, when their imagination is more 
chastened, their passions are more tamed, and a wider experi- 
ence has rendered the objects of life more familiar to them. 
Even the manner in which I before showed that the first tribes 
of men uttered their words, would have considerable influence 
on their style. Wherever strong exclamations, tones, and 
gestures, enter much into conversation, the imagination is always 
more exercised ; a greater effort of fancy and passion is excited. 
Consequently, the fancy, kept awake, and rendered more 
sprightly by this mode of utterance, operates upon style, and 
enlivens it more. 

These reasonings are confirmed by undoubted facts. The 
style of almost all the early languages, among nations who are 
in the first and rude periods of society, is found, without excep- 
tion, to be full of figures ; hyperbolical and picturesque in a 
high degree. We have a striking instance of tins in the Ameri- 
can languages, which are known, by the most authentic ac- 
counts, to be figurative to excess. The Iroquois and Illinois 
carry on their treaties and public transactions with bolder meta- 
phors, and greater pomp of style, than we use in our poetical 
productions.* 

* TTi>i«, to give an instance ol the Macular style of thete nation*, the five fic- 
tions of Canada, when entering on a treaty of peace with us, expresses them- 
selves by theircliiefs in the following language. : "We are bapry in having buried 
t.fder ground the red »jte, that has so often been dyed with the blood of oui 



RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 73 

Another remarkable instance is, the style of the Old Testa- 
ment, which is carried on by constant allusions to sensible ob- 
jects. Iniquity, or guilt, is expressed by a " spotted garment;'' 
misery, by " drinking the cup of astonishment ;" vain pursuits, 
by " feeding on ashes;" a sinful life, by " a crooked path;" 
prosperity, by " the candle of the Lord shining on our head ; " 
and the like, in innumerable instances. Hence, we have been 
accustomed to call this sort of style the oriental style, as fancy- 
ing it to be peculiar to the nations of the east : whereas, from /^ 
the American style, and from many other instances, it plainly ap- 
pears not to have been peculiar to any one region or climate : 
but to have been common to all nations, in certain periods of 
society and language. 

Hence, we may receive some light concerning that seeming 
paradox, that poetry is more ancient than prose. I shall have 
occasion to discuss this point fully hereafter, when I come to 
treat of the nature and origin of poetry. At present, it is suffi- 
cient to observe, that from what has been said it plainly appears, 
that the style of all languages must have been originally poetical ; 
strongly tinctured with that enthusiasm, and that descriptive 
metaphorical expression, which distinguishes poetry. 

As language, in its progress, began to grow more copious, 
it gradually lost that figurative style, which was its early cha- 
racter. When men were furnished with proper and familiar 
names for every object, both sensible and moral, they were not 
obliged to use so many circumlocutions. Style became more 
precise, and of course, more simple. Imagination too, in pro- 
portion as society advanced, had less influence over mankind. 
The vehement manner of speaking by tones and gestures began 
to be disused. The understanding was more exercised ; the 

brethren. Now, in this tort, we inter the axe, and plant the tree of peace. We 
plant a tree, whose top will reach the sun ; and its branches spread abroad, so 
that it shall be seen afar oft". May its growth never be stifled and choked ; but 
may it shade both your country and ours with its leaves ! Let us make fast its 
roots, and extend them to the utmost of your colonies. If the French snould 
come to shake this tree, we would know it by the motion of its roots reaching 
into our country. May the Great Spirit allow ns to rest in tranquillity upon our 
mats, and never again dig up the axe to cut down the tree of Peace : Let the 
earth be trod hard over it, where it lies buried. Let a strong stream run under 
the pit, to wash the. evil away out of our sight and remembrance. — The fire 
that had long burned in Albany is extinguished. The bloody bed is washed 
clean, and the tears are wiped from our eyes. We now renew the covenant 
chain of friendship. Let it be kept bright and clean as silver, and not suffered 
to contract any rust. Let not any one pull away his arm from it." These 
passages are extracted from Cadwallader Colden's History of the Five Indian 
Nations ; where it appears, from the authentic documents he produces, that 
such is their genuine style. 






LECTURE VII. 

RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AND OF WRITING. 

WHEN we attend to the order in which words are arrang- 
ed in a sentence, or significant proposition, we find a very remark- 
able difference between the ancient and the modern tongues. 
The consideration of this will serve to unfold further the genius of 
language, and to show the causes of those alterations, which it 
has undergone, in the progress of society. 

In order to conceive distinctly the nature of that alteration 
of which I now speak, let us go back, as we did formerly, to 
the most early period of language. Let us figure to ourselves 
a savage, who beholds some object, such as fruit, which raises 
his desire, and who requests another to give it to him. Suppos- 
ing our savage to be unacquainted with words, he would in 
that case labour to make himself be understood, by pointing ear- 
nestly at the object which he desired, and uttering at the same 
time a passionate cry. Supposing him to have acquired words^ 
the first word which he uttered would, of course, be the name of 
that object. He would not express himself, according to our 



74 LECTURE VII. 

fancy, less. Intercourse among mankind becoming more exten- 
sive and frequent, clearness of style, in signifying their meaning 
to each other, was the chief object of attention. In place of 
poets, philosophers became the instructors of men ; and, in their 
reasonings on all different subjects, introduced that plainer and 
simpler style of composition, which we now call prose. Among 
the Greeks, Pherecydes of Scyros, the master of Pythagoras, 
is recorded to have been the first, who, in this sense, composed 
any writing in prose. The ancient metaphorical and poetical 
dress of language was now laid aside from the intercourse of 
men, and reserved for those occasions only, on which orna- 
ment was professedly studied. 

Thus I have pursued the history of language through some 
of the variation's it has undergone ; I have considered it, in the 
first structure and composition of words ; in the manner of 
uttering or pronouncing words ; and in the style and character 
of speech. I have yet to consider it in another view, respecting 
the order and arrangement of words ; when we shall find a pro- 
gress to have taken place, similar to what I have been now illus- 
trating 



PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. To 

English order of construction. " Give me fruit," but, according 
to the Latin order, u Fruit give me ; " " Fructum da mihi : " for 
this plain reason, that his attention was wholly directed towards 
fruit, the desired object. This was the exciting idea ; the ob- 
ject which moved him to speak ; and, of course, would be the 
first named. Such an arrangement is precisely putting into 
words the .gestures which nature taught the savage to make, be- 
fore he was acquainted with words ; and therefore it may be de- 
pended upon as certain, that he would fall most readily into this 
arrangement. 

Accustomed now to a different method of ordering our words, 
we call this an inversion, and consider it as a forced and unna- 
tural order of speech. But though not the most logical, it is, 
however, in one view, the most natural order ; because, it is 
the order suggested by imagination and desire, which always im- 
pel us to mention their object in the first place. We might 
therefore conclude, a priori, that this would be the order in 
which words were most commonly arranged at the beginnings 
of language ; and accordingly we find, in fact, that in this 
order, words are arranged in most of the ancient tongues ; as 
in the Greek and the Latin ; and it is said also, in the Russian, 
the Sclavonic, the Gaelic, and several of the American tongues. 

In the Latin language, the arrangement which most com- 
monly obtains, is, to place first in the sentence that word which 
expresses the principal object of the discourse, together with its 
circumstances ; and afterwards, the person, or the thing that 
acts upon it. Thus Sallust, comparing together the mind and 
the body;"Animi imperio, corporis, servitio, magis utimur ;" 
which order certainly renders the sentence more lively and 
striking, than when it is arranged according to our English con- 
struction; "We make most use of the direction of the soul, and 
of the service of the body." The Latin order gratifies more the 
rapidity of the imagination, which naturally runs first to that 
which is its chief object ; and having once named it, carries it in 
view throughout the rest of the sentence. In the same manner 
in poetry : 

Justum et tenacem propositi vinim, 
Non civium ardor prava jubentium, 

Non vultus instantis tyranni, 

Mente quatit solida. 

Every person of taste must be sensible, that here the words are 
arranged with a much greater regard to the figure which the 
several objects make in the fancy, than our English construction 



7G LECTURE VII. 

admits ; which would require the ' Justum et tenaoem propositi 
virum," though, undoubtedly, the capital object in the sentence, 
to be thrown into the last place. 

I have said, that, in the Greek and Roman languages, the 
most common arrangement is, to place that first w Llch strikes 
the imagination of the speaker most. I do not, however, pre-, 
tend, that this holds without exception. Sometimes regard to 
the harmony of the period requires a different order ; and in 
languages susceptible of so much musical beauty, and pronounced 
with so much tone and modulation as were used by those nations, 
the harmony of periods was an object carefully studied. Some- 
times, too, attention to the perspicuity, to the force, or to the 
artful suspension of the speaker's meaning, alter this order ; and 
produce such varieties in the arrangement, that it is not easy to 
reduce them to any one principle. But, in general, this was the 
genius and character of most of the ancient languages, to give 
such full liberty to the collocation of words, as allowed them to 
assume whatever order was most agreeable to the speaker's 
imagination. The Hebrew is, indeed, an exception : which, 
though not altogether without inversions, yet employs them less 
frequently, and approaches nearer to the English construction, 
than either the Greek or the Latin. 

, All the modern languages of Europe have adopted a different 
arrangement from the ancient. In their prose compositions, 
very little variety is admitted in the collocation of words ; they 
are mostly fixed to one order ; and that order is, what may be 
called the order of the understanding. They place first in the 
sentence, the person or thing which speaks or acts ; next, its ac- 
tion ; and lastly, the object of its action : so that the ideas are 
made to succeed to one another, not according to the degree of 
importance which the several objects carry in the imagination, 
but according to the order of nature and of time. 

An English writer, paying a compliment to a great man, 
would say thus : " It is impossible for me to pass over, in silence, 
such remarkable mildness, such singular and unheard of 
clemency, and such unusual moderation, in the exercise of su- 
preme power." Here we have first presented to us, the person 
who speaks, /"It is impossible for me;" next, what that person 
is to do, " impossible for him to pass over in silence ;" and lastly, 
the object which moves him so to do, " the mildness, clemency, 
and moderation of his patron." Cicero, from whom I have 
translated these words, just reverses this order ; beginning with 
the object, placing that first which was the exciting idea in the 



PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 77 

speaker's mind, and ending with the speaker and his action. 
" Tantam mansuetudinem, tarn inusitatam inauditamque clemen. 
tiam, tantumque in summa potestate rerum omnium modum, 
tacitus nullo modo prseterire possum." (Orat. pro Marcell.) 

The Latin order is more animated ; the English more clear 
and distinct. The Romans generally arranged their words ac- 
cording to the order in which the ideas rose in the speaker's 
imagination. We arrange them according to the order in 
which the understanding directs those ideas to be exhibited, in 
succession, to the view of another. Our arrangement, therefore, 
appears to be the consequence of greater refinement in the art of 
speech ; as far as clearness in communication is understood to 
be the end of speech. 

In poetry, where we are supposed to rise above the ordinary 
style, and to speak the language of fancy and passion, our 
arrangement is not altogether so limited ; but some greater 
liberty is allowed for transposition and inversion. Even there, 
however, that liberty is confined within narrow bounds, in com- 
parison of the ancient languages. The different modern tongues 
vary from one another in this respect. The French language is, 
of them all, the most determinate in the order of its words, and 
admits the least of inversion, either in prose or poetry. The 
English admits it more. But the Italian retains the most of the 
ancient transpositive character ; though one is apt to think it 
attended with a little obscurity in the style of some of their au- 
thors, who deal most in these transpositions. 

It is proper, next, to observe, that there is one circumstance 
in the structure of all the modern tongues, Jfcvhich, if necessary, 
limits their arrangement, in a great measure, to one fixed and 
determinate train. We have disused those differences of termi- 
nation, which, in the Greek and Latin, distinguished the several 
cases of nouns, and tenses of verbs ; and which, thereby, pointed 
out the mutual relation of the several words in a sentence to one 
another, though the related words were disjoined, and placed in 
different parts of the sentence, lliis is an alteration in the 
structure of language, of which I shall have occasion to say more 
in the next lecture. / One obvious effect of it is, that we have 
now, for the most part, no way left us to show the close relation 
of any two words to each other in meaning, but by placing them 
close to one another in the period. For instance, the Romans 
could, with propriety, express themselves thus : 

Exstinctum nymphae crudeli funere Daphnin 
Flebant. 



7rt LECTURE VJI. 

Because " Exstinctum et Daphnin," being both in the accusative 
case, this showed that the adjective and the substantive were 
related to each other, though placed at the two extremities 
of the line; and that both were governed by the active verb 
" flebant," to which " nymphae" plainly appeared to be the 
nominative. The different terminations here reduced all into 
order, and made the connexion of the several words perfect- 
ly clear. But let us translate these words literally into 
English, according to the Latin arrangement; "Dead the 
nymphs by a cruel fate Daphnis lamented ;" and they become 
a perfect riddle, in which it is impossible to find any mean- 
ing. 

It was by means of this contrivance, which obtained in 
almost all the ancient languages, of varying the termination 
of nouns and verbs, and thereby pointing out the concord- 
ance, and the government of the words in a sentence, that 
they enjoyed so much liberty of transposition, and could 
marshal and arrange their words in any way that gratified 
the imagination, or pleased the ear. When language came 
to be modelled by the northern nations who overran the 
empire, they dropped the cases of nouns, and the different 
termination of verbs, with the more ease, because they plac- 
ed no great value upon the advantages arising from such a 
structure of language. They were attentive only to clearness, 
and copiousness of expression. They neither regarded much 
the harmony of sound, nor sought to gratify the imagination 
by the collocation of words. They studied solely to express 
themselves in such a manner as should exhibit their ideas 
to others in the most distinct and intelligible order. And 
hence, if our language, by reason of the simple arrangement 
of its words, possesses less harmony, less beauty, and less 
force, than the Greek or Latin ; it is, however, in its mean 
ing, more obvious and plain. 

Thus I have shown what the natural progress of language 
has been, in several material articles ; and this account of the 
genius and progress of language lays a foundation for many 
observations both curious and useful. From what has been 
said in this, and the preceding lecture, it appears, that Ian 
guage was, at first, barren in words, but descriptive by the 
sound of those words ; and expressive in the manner of utter- 
ing them, by the aid of significant tones and gestures ; style 
was figurative and poetical ; arrangement was fanciful and 
lively. It appears, that, in all the successive changes wbich 






RISE AND PROGRESS OF WRITING. 79 

language lias undergone, as the world advanced, the under- 
standing has gained ground on the fancy and imagination. The 
progress of language, in this respect, resembles the progress 
of age in man. The imagination is most vigorous and pre- 
dominant in youth ; with advancing years, the imagination 
cools, and the understanding ripens. Thus language, pro- 
ceeding from sterility to copiousness, hath at the same time 
proceeded from vivacity to accuracy; from fire and enthusi- 
asm, to coolness and precision. Those characters of early 
language, descriptive sound, vehement tones and gestures, figura- 
tive style, and inverted arrangement, all hang together, have 
a mutual influence on each other ; and have all gradually given 
place to arbitrary sounds, calm pronunciation, simple style, 
plain arrangement. Language is become in modern times, 
more correct, and accurate ; but however, less striking and 
animated: and its ancient state, more favourable to poetry 
and oratory ; in its present, to reason and philosophy. 

Having finished my account of the progress of speech, I 
proceed to give an account of the progress of writing, which 
next demands our notice ; though it will not require so full 
a discussion as the former subject. 

Next to speech, writing is, beyond doubt, the most useful 
art which men possess. It is plainly an improvement upon 
speech, and therefore must have been posterior to it in order 
of time. At first, men thought of nothing more than communi- 
cating their thoughts to one another, when present, by means 
of words or sounds which they uttered. Afterwards, they devis- 
ed this further method of mutual communication with one ano- 
ther, when absent, by means of marks or characters presented 
to the eye, which we call writing. 

Written characters are of two sorts. They are either signs 
for things, or signs for words. Of the former sort, signs of 
things, are the pictures, hieroglyphics, and symbols, employed 
by the ancient nations ; of the latter sort, signs for words, 
are the alphabetical characters, now employed by all Europeans. 
These two kinds of writing are generically, and essentially dis- 
tinct. 

Pictures were, undoubtedly, the first essay towards writing. 
Imitation is so natural to man, that, in all ages, and among all 
nations, some methods have obtained, of copying or tracing the 
likeness of sensible objects Those methods would soon be em- 
ployed by men for giving some imperfect information to others, 
at a distance, of what had happened ; or, for preserving the me- 



00 LECTURE VII. 

niory of facts which they sought to record. Thus, to signify 
that one man had killed another, they drew the figure of one man 
stretched upon the earth, and of another standing by him with 
a deadly weapon in his hand. We find, in fact, that when 
America was first discovered, this was the only sort of writing 
known in the kingdom of Mexico. By historical pictures, the 
Mexicans are said to have transmitted the memory of the most 
important transactions of their empire. These, however must 
have been extremely imperfect records ; and the nations who had 
no other, must have been very gross and rude. Pictures could 
do no more than delineate external events. They could neither 
exhibit the connexions of them, nor describe such qualities as 
were not visible to the eye, nor convey any idea of the disposi- 
tions or words of men. 

To supply, in some degree, this defect, there arose, in pro- 
cess of time, the invention of what are called hieroglyphical char- 
acters ; which may be considered as the second stage of the art 
of writing. Hieroglyphics consist in certain symbols, which 
are made to stand for invisible objects, on account of an analogy 
or resemblance which such symbols were supposed to bear to 
the objects. Thus, an eye was the hieroglyphical symbol of 
knowledge ; a circle, of eternity, which has neither beginning 
nor end. Hieroglyphics, therefore, were a more refined and 
extensive species of painting. /'Pictures delineated the resem- 
blance of external visible objects. Hieroglyphics painted in- 
visible objects, by analogies taken from the external world, j 

Among the Mexicans were found some traces of hierogly- 
phical characters, intermixed with their historical pictures. But 
Egypt was the country where this sort of writing was most 
studied and brought into a regular art. In hieroglyphics was 
conveyed all the boasted wisdom of their priests. According to 
the properties which they ascribed to animals, or the qualities 
with which they supposed natural objects to be endowed, they 
pitched upon them to be the emblems, or hieroglyphics, of 
moral objects ; and employed them in their writing for that end. 
Thus, ingratitude was denominated by a viper ; imprudence, by 
a fly ; wisdom, by an ant ; victory, by a hawk ; a dutiful child, 
by a stork ; a man universally shunned, by an eel, which they 
suppose to be found in company with no other fish. Sometimes 
they joined together two or more of these hieroglyphical charac- 
ters ; as, a serpent with a hawk's head ; to denote nature, with 
God presiding over it. But, as many of those properties of ob- 
jects which they assumed for the foundation of their hierogly- 






RISE AND PROG HESS OF WRITING. 81 

phics, were merely imaginary, and the allusions drawn from 
them were forced and ambiguous ; as the conjunction of their 
characters rendered them still more obscure, and must have ex- 
pressed very indistinctly the connexions and relations of things ; 
this sort of writing could be no other than enigmatical, and con- 
fused in the highest degree ; and must have been a very imper- 
fect vehicle of knowledge of any kind. 

It has been imagined that hieroglyphics were an invention of 
the Egyptian priests, for concealing their learning from com- 
mon view ; and that, upon this account, it was preferred by 
them to the alphabetical method of writing. But this is certainly 
a mistake. Hieroglyphics were, undoubtedly, employed at first 
from necessity, not from choice or refinement ; and would never 
have been thought of, if alphabetical characters had been known 
The nature of the invention plainly shows it to have been one 
of those gross and rude essays towards writing, which were 
adopted in the early ages of the world ; in order to extend fur- 
ther the first method which they had employed of simple pic- 
tures, or representations of visible objects. Indeed in after- 
times, when alphabetical writing was introduced into Egypt, 
and the hieroglyphical was, of course, fallen into disuse, it is 
known, that the priests still employed the hieroglyphical charac- 
ters, as a sacred kind of writing, now become peculiar to them- 
selves, and serving to give an air of mystery to their learning 
and religion. In this state the Greeks found hieroglyphical 
writing when they began to have intercourse with Egypt ; and 
some of their writers mistook this use, to which they found it 
applied, for the cause that had given rise to the invention. 

As writing advanced, from pictures of visible objects, to 
hieroglyphics, or symbols of things invisible ; from these latter, 
it advanced, among some nations, to simple arbitrary marks 
which stood for objects, though without any resemblance or 
analogy to the objects signified. Of this nature was the me- 
thod of writing practised among the Peruvians. They made 
use of small cords of different colours, and by knots upon 
these, of various sizes, and differently ranged, they contrived 
signs for giving information, and communicating their thoughts 
to one another. 

Of this nature, also, are the written characters which are 
used to this day throughout the great empire of China. The 
Chinese have no alphabet of letters, or simple sounds, which 
compose their words. But every single character which they 
use in writing, is significant of an idea ; it is a mark which 

O 



t 



82 LECTURE VII. 

stands for some one thing or object. By consequence, the 
number of these characters must be immense. It must cor- 
respond to the whole number of objects or ideas, which they 
have occasion to express ; that is, to the whole number of 
words which they employ in speech ; nay, it must be greater 
than the number of words ; one word, by varying the tone 
with which it is spoken, may be made to signify several 
different things. They are said to have seventy thousand 
of those written characters. To read and write them to per- 
fection is the study of a whole life ; which subjects learning, 
among them, to infinite disadvantage ; and must have greatly 
retarded the progress of all science. 

Concerning the origin of these Chinese characters there 
have been different opinions, and much controversy. Accord- 
ing to the most probable accounts, the Chinese writing be- 
gan, like the Egyptian, with pictures and hieroglyphical figures. 
These figures being, in progress, abbreviated in their form, 
for the sake of writing them easily, and greatly enlarged 
in their number, passed at length into those marks or characters 
which they now use, and which have spread themselves through 
several nations of the east. For we are informed that the 
Japanese, the Tonquinese, and the Corceans, who speak dif- 
ferent languages from one another, and from the inhabitants 
of China, use, however, the same written characters with 
them; and, by this means, correspond intelligibly with each 
other in writing, though ignorant of the language spoken in 
their several countries ; a plain proof that the Chinese characters 
are, like hieroglyphics, independent of language; are signs 
of things, not of words. 

We have one instance of this sort of writing in Europe. 
Our ciphers, as they are called, or arithmetical figures, 1, 2, 
3, 4, &c, which we have derived from the Arabians, are 
significant marks precisely of the same nature with the Chi- 
nese characters. They have no dependence on words ; but 
each figure denotes an object ; denotes the number for which 
it stands ; and, accordingly, on being presented to the eye, 
is equally understood by all the nations who have agreed in the 
use of these ciphers ; by Italians, Spaniards, French, and En- 
glish, however different the languages of those nations are 
from one another, and whatever different names they give, 
in their respective languages, to each numerical cipher. 

As far, then, as we have yet advanced, nothing has ap- 
peared which resembles our letters, or which can be called 






RISE AND PROGRESS OF WRITING. 83 

writing, in the sense we now give to that term. What wo 
have hitherto seen, were all direct signs for things, and made 
no use of the medium of sound, or words ; either signs by 
representation, as the Mexican pictures ; or signs by analogy, as 
the Egyptian hieroglyphics ; or signs by institution, as the Peru- 
vian knots, the Chinese characters, and the Arabian ciphers 

At length, in different nations, men became sensible of the 
imperfection, the ambiguity, and the tediousness of each of these 
methods of communication with one another. They began to 
consider, that by employing signs which should stand not di- 
rectly for things, but for the words which they used in speech 
for naming these things, a considerable advantage would be 
gained. For they reflected further, that though the number of 
words in every language be indeed very great, yet the number of 
articulate sounds, which are used in composing these words, is 
comparatively small. The same simple sounds are continually 
recurring and repeated, and are combined together, in various 
ways, for forming all the variety of words which we utter 
They bethought themselves, therefore, of inventing signs, not 
for each word by itself, but for each of those simple sounds 
which we employ in forming our words ; and, by joining together 
a few of those signs, they saw that it would be practicable to ex- 
press, in writing, the whole combinations of sounds which our 
words require. 

The first step in this new progress was the invention of an 
alphabet of syllables, which probably preceded the invention of 
an alphabet of letters, among some of the ancient nations, and 
which is said to be retained, to this day, in ^Ethiopia, and some 
countries of India. By fixing upon a particular mark, or 
character, for every syllable in the language, the number of 
characters, necessary to be used in writing, was reduced within 
a much smaller compass than the number of words in the lan- 
guage. Still, however, the number of characters was great, 
and must have continued to render both reading and writing 
very laborious arts. Till, at last, some happy genius arose ; 
and, tracing the sounds made by the human voice to their most 
simple elements, reduced them to a very few vowels and conso- 
nants ; and, by affixing to each of these the signs which we now 
call letters, taught men how, by their combinations, to put in 
writing all the different words, or combinations of sound, which 



04 LECTURE VII. 

To whom we are indebted for this sublime and refined dis- 
covery, does not appear. Concealed by the darkness of remote 
antiquity, the great inventor is deprived of those honours which 
would still be paid to his memory by all the lovers of knowledge 
and learning. It appears from the books which Moses has 
written, that, among the Jews, and probably among the Egyp- 
tians, letters had been invented prior to his age. The universal 
tradition among the ancients is, that they were first imported 
into Greece by Cadmus, the Phoenician, who, according to the 
common system of chronology, was contemporary with Joshua , 
according to Sir Isaac Newton's system, contemporary with 
king David. As the Phoenicians are not known to have been 
the inventors of any art or science, though, by means of their 
extensive commerce, they propagated the discoveries made by 
other nations, the most probable and natural account of the 
origin of alphabetical characters is, that they took rise in Egypt, 
the first civilized kingdom of which we have any authentic ac- 
counts, and the great source of arts and polity among the an- 
cients. In that country, the favourite study of hieroglyphical 
characters had directed much attention to the art of writing. 
Their hieroglyphics are known to have been intermixed with 
abbreviated symbols, and arbitrary marks ; whence, at last, 
they caught the idea of contriving marks, not for things merely, 
but for sounds. Accordingly Plato (in Phsedro) expressly attri- 
butes the invention of letters to Theuth, the Egyptian, who is 
supposed to have been the Hermes, or Mercury, of &» o.ccus. 
Cadmus himself, though he passed from Phoenicia to Greece, 
yet is affirmed, by several of the ancients, to have been originally 
of Thebes in Egypt. Most probably Moses carried with him 
the Egyptian letters into the land of Canaan ; and there, being 
adopted by the Phoenicians, who inhabited part of that country, 
they were transmitted into Greece. 

The alphabet which Cadmus brought into Greece was im- 
perfect, and is said to have contained only sixteen letters. The 
rest were afterwards added, according as signs for proper 
sounds were found to be wanting. It is curious to observe, that 
the letters which we use at this day, can be traced back to tin 
very alphabet of Cadmus. The Roman alphabet, which obtain 
with us, and with most of the European nations, is plainly 
formed on the Greek, with a few variations. And all learnea 
men observe, that the Greek characters, especially according tt» 
the manner in which they are formed in the oldest inscriptions, 
have a remarkable conformity witli^the Hebrew or Samaritan 



RISE AND PROGRESS OF WRITING. 0» 

characters, which, it is agreed, are the same with the Phoeni- 
cian, or the alphabet of Cadmus. Invert the Greek characters 
from left to right, according to the Phoenician and Hebrew man- 
ner of writing, and they are nearly the same. Besides the con- 
formity of figure, the names or denominations of the letters, 
alpha, beta, gamma, &c. and the order in which the letters are 
arranged, in all the several alphabets, Phoenician, Hebrew, 
Greek, and Roman, agree so much, as amounts to a demonstra- 
tion, that they were all derived originally from the same source. 
An invention so useful and simple was greedily received by man- 
kind, and propagated with speed and facility through many dif- 
ferent nations. 

The letters were originally written from the right hand 
towards the left ; that is, in a contrary order to what we now 
practise. This manner of writing obtained among the Assyrians, 
Phoenicians, Arabians, and Hebrews ; and from some very old 
inscriptions, appears to have obtained also among the Greeks. 
Afterwards the Greeks adopted a new method, writing their 
lines alternately from the right to the left, and from the left to 
the right, which was called boustrophedon ; or, writing after the 
manner in which oxen plough the ground. Of this, several 
specimens still remain ; particularly the inscription on the 
famous Sigsean monument ; and down to the days of Solon, the 
legislator of Athens, this continued to be the common method of 
writing. At length, the motion from the left hand to the right 
being found more natural and commodious, the practice of writ- 
ing in this direction prevailed throughout all the countries of 
Europe. 

Writing was long a kind of engraving. Pillars and tables 
of stone were first employed for this purpose, and afterwards, 
plates of the softer metals, such as lead. In proportion as 
writing became more common, lighter and more portable sub- 
stances were employed. The leaves, and the bark of certain 
trees, were used in some countries ; and in others, tablets of 
wood, covered with a thin coat of soft wax, on which the im- 
pression was made with a stylus of iron. In later times, the 
hides of animals, properly prepared, and polished into parch- 
ment, were the most common materials. Our present method 
of writing on paper is an invention of no greater antiquity than 
the fourteenth century 

Thus I have given some account of the progress of these 
two great arts, speech and writing ; by which men's thoughts 
are communicated, and the foundation laid for all knowledge 



86 LECTURK VII. 

and improvement. Let us conclude the subject with comparing., 
in a few words, spoken language, and written language ; or, 
words uttered in our hearing, with words represented to the 
eye ; where we shall find several advantages and disadvantages 
to be balanced on both sides. 

The advantages of writing above speech are, that writing is 
both a more extensive, and a more permanent method of com- 
munication. More extensive, as it is not confined within the 
narrow circle of those who hear our words ; but, by means of 
written characters, we can send our thoughts abroad, and pro- 
pagate them through the world ; we can lift our voice, so as to 
speak to the most distant regions of the earth. More permanent 
also, as it prolongs this voice to the most distant ages ; it gives 
us the means of recording our sentiments to futurity, and of 
perpetuating the instructive memory of past transactions. It 
likewise affords this advantage to such as read, above such as 
hear, that, having the written characters before their eyes, they 
can arrest the sense of the writer. They can pause, and re- 
volve, and compare, at their leisure, one passage with another ; 
whereas the voice is fugitive and passing ; you must catch 
the words the moment they are uttered, or you lose them for 
ever. 

But, although these be so great advantages of written lan- 
guage, that speech, without writing, would have been very in- 
adequate for the instruction of mankind, yet we must not forget 
to observe, that spoken language has a great superiority over 
written language, in point of energy or force. The voice of 
the living speaker makes an impression on the mind, much 
stronger than can be made by the perusal of any writing. The 
tones of voice, the looks and gestures which accompany dis- 
course, and which no writing can convey, render discourse, 
when it is well managed, infinitely more clear, and more expres- 
sive, than the most accurate writing. For tones, looks, and 
gestures, are natural interpreters of the sentiments of the mind. 
They remove ambiguities ; they enforce impressions ; they 
operate on us by means of sympathy, which is one of the most 
powerful instruments of persuasion. Our sympathy is always 
awakened more by hearing the speaker, than by reading his 
works in our closet. Hence, though writing may answer the 
purposes of mere instruction, yet all the great and high efforts 
of eloquence must be made by means of spoken, not of written,, 
language. 






87 

LECTURE VIII. 

STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 

After having given an account of the rise and progress 
of language, I proceed to treat of its structure, or of general 
grammar. The structure of language is extremely artificial ; 
and there are few sciences in which a deeper, or more refined 
logic is employed, than in grammar. It is apt to be slighted by 
superficial thinkers, as belonging to those rudiments of know- 
ledge which were inculcated upon us in our earliest youth. But 
what was then inculcated before we could comprehend its prin- 
ciples, would abundantly repay our study in maturer years ; and 
to the ignorance of it must be attributed many of those funda- 
mental defects which appear in writing. 

Few authors have written with philosophical accuracy on 
the principles of general grammar ; and, what is more to be re- 
gretted, fewer still have thought of applying those principles to 
the English language. While the French tongue has long been 
an object of attention to many able and ingenious writers of 
that nation, who have considered its construction, and deter- 
mined its propriety with great accuracy, the genius and gram- 
mar of the English, to the reproach of the country, have not 
been studied with equal care, or ascertained with the same 
precision. Attempts have been made, indeed, of late, towards 
supplying this defect, and some able writers have entered on the 
subject ; but much remains yet to be done. 

I do not propose to give any system, either of grammar in 
general, or of English grammar in particular. A minute discus- 
sion of the niceties of language would carry us too much off 
from other objects, which demand our attention in the course of 
lectures. But I propose to give a general view of the chief 
principles relating to this subject, in observations on the several 
parts of which speech or language is composed ; remarking as 1 
go along, the peculiarities of our own tongue. After which, I 
shall make some more particular remarks on the genius of the 
English language. 

The first thing to be considered, is the division of the several 
parts of speech. The essential parts of speech are the same in 
all languages. There must always be some words which denote 
the names of objects, or mark the subject of discourse ; other 
words which denote the qualities of those objects, and express 



08 LECTURE VIII. 

what we affirm concerning them ; and other words, which point 
out their connexions and relations. Hence, substantives, pro- 
nouns, adjectives, verbs, prepositions, and conjunctions, must 
necessarily be found in all languages. The most simple and 
comprehensive division of the parts of speech is, into substan- 
tives, attributives, and connectives.* Substantives are all the 
words which express the names of objects, or the subjects of dis- 
course ; attributives are all the words which express any attri- 
bute, property, or action of the former ; connectives are what 
express the connexions, relations, and dependencies, which take 
place among them. The common grammatical division of speech 
into eight parts ; nouns, pronouns, verbs, participles, adverbs, 
prepositions, interjections, and conjunctions, is not very lo- 
gical, as might be easily shown ; as it comprehends under the 
general term of nouns, both substantives and adjectives, which 
are parts of speech generically and essentially distinct ; while it 
makes a separate part of speech of participles, which are no 
other than verbal adjectives. However, as these are the terms 
to which our ears have been most familiarised, and as an 
exact logical division is of no great consequence to our present 
purpose, it will be better to make use of these known terms 
than of any other 

We are naturally led to begin with the consideration of sub- 
stantive nouns, which are the foundation of all grammar, and 
may be considered as the most ancient part of speech. For 
assuredly, as soon as men had got beyond simple interjec- 
tions, or exclamations of passion, and began to communicate 
themselves by discourse, they would be under a necessity of 
assigning names to the objects they saw around them ; which, 
in grammatical language, is called the invention of substantive 
nouns.f And here, at our first setting out, somewhat curious 

* Quintilian informs us, that this was the most anoient division. " Turn 
\idebit qnot et quae sunt partes oiationis. Quanquani de mimero parum con- 
venit. Veteres enim, quorum fuerunt Aristoteles atque Theodectes, verba modo, 
et nomina, et convinctiones tradiderunt. Videlicet, quod in verbis vim sermonis, 
in nominibus materiam, (quia alteram est quod loquimur, alteram de quo loqui- 
jnur,)in convinctionibus autem complexumeorumessejudicarunt ; quas conjunc- 
tiones a plcrisque dici scio ; sed haec videtur ex o-uvSsV/iw magis propria trans- 
late. Paulatim a philosophis, ac raaxime a Stoicis, auctus est numerus : ac primum 
convinctionibus articuli adjecti ; post praepositiones ; nominibus, appellatio, 
deinde pronomen ; deinde mixtum verbo participium ; ipsis verbis, adverbia." 
Lib. i. cap. iv. 

t I do not mean to assert, that, among all nations, the first invented words 
were simple and regular substantive nouns. Nothing is more difficult than to 
ascertain the precise steps by which men proceeded in the formation of language. 
N aiuei for objects must, doubtless, have arisen in the most early stipes of speech. 



STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 09 

Occurs. The individual objects which surround us, are infinite 
in number. A savage, wherever he looked, beheld forests and 
trees. To give separate names to every one of those trees, 
would have been an endless and impracticable undertaking, 
His first object was, to give a name to that particular tree, 
whose fruit relieved His hunger, or whose shade protected him 
from the sun. But observing, that though other trees were 
distinguished from this by peculiar qualities of size or appear- 
ance, yet, that they also agreed and resembled one another, 
in certain common qualities, such as springing from a root, and 
bearing branches and leaves, he formed in his mind some general 
idea of those common qualities, and ranging all that possessed 
them under one class of objects, he called that whole class a tree. 
Longer experience taught him to sub-divide this genus into the 
several species of oak, pine, ash, and the rest, according as his 
observation extended to the several qualities in which these 
trees agreed or differed. 

But, still, he made use only of general terms in speech. For 
the oak, the pine, and the ash, were names of whole classes of 
objects ; each of which included an immense number of undis- 
tinguished individuals. Here then, it appears, that though the 
formation of abstract, or general conceptions, is supposed to be 
a difficult operation of the mind ; such conceptions must have 
entered into the very first formation of language. For, if we 
except only the proper names of persons, such as Cassar, John, 
Peter, all the other substantive nouns which we employ in dis- 
course, are the names, not of individual objects, but of very ex- 

But it is probable, as the learned author of the Treatise on the Origin and Pro- 
gress of Language has shown, vol. i. p. 371,395, that, among several savage 
tribes, some of the first articulate sounds that were formed denoted a whole sen- 
tence rather than the name of a particular object ; conveying some information, 
or expressing some desires or fears, suited to the circumstances in which that 
tribe was placed, or relating to the Dusiness they had most frequent occasion to 
carry on ; as the lion is coming, the river is swelling, &c. Many of their first 
words, it is likewise probable, were not simple substantive nouns, but substan- 
tives, accompanied with some of those attributes, in conjunction with which they 
were most frequently accustomed to behold them ; as the great bear, the little 
hut, the wound made by the hatchet, Ac. Of all which the author produces in- 
stances from several of the American languages, and it is, undoubtedly, suitable 
. o the natural course of the operations of the human mind thus to begin with par- 
iculars the most obvious to sense, and to proceed, from these, to more general 
expressions. He likewise observes, that the words of those primitive tongues 
are far from being, as we might suppose them, rude and short, and crowded with 
consonants ; but, on the contrary, are, for the most part, long words, and full of 
vowels. This is the consequence of their being formed upon the natural sounds 
which the voice utters with most ease, a little varied and distinguished by articu- 
lation; and he shows this to hold, in fact, among most of the barbarous languages 
which are known. 



00 LECTURE VIII. 

tensive genera, or species of objects ; as, man, lion, house, river, 
&c. We are not, however, to imagine, that this invention of 
general, or abstract terms, requires any great exertion of meta- 
physical capacity ; for, by whatever steps the mind proceeds in 
it, it is certain, that, when men have once observed resemblances 
among objects, they are naturally inclined to call all those 
which resemble one another, by one common name ; and of 
course to class them under one species. We may daily observe 
this practised by children, in their first attempts towards ac- 
quiring language. 

But now, after language had proceeded as far as I have de- 
scribed, the notification which it made of objects was still very 
imperfect : for, when one mentioned to another, in discourse, any 
substantive noun ; such as, man, lion, or tree, how was it to be 
known which man, which lion, or which tree, he meant, among 
the many comprehended under one name ? Here occurs a very 
curious, and a very useful contrivance for specifying the indi- 
vidual object intended, by means of that part of speech called 
the article. 

The force of the article consists, in pointing, or singling out 
from the common mass, the individual of which we mean to 
speak. In English, we have two articles, a and the ; a is more 
general and unlimited ; the more definite and special. A is much 
the same with one, and marks only any one individual of a species ; 
that individual being either unknown, or left undetermined ; as, a 
lion, a king. The, which possesses more properly the force of 
the article, ascertains some known or determined individual of 
of the species ; as, the lion, the king. 

Articles are words of great use in speech. In some lan- 
guages, however, they are not found. The Greeks have but one 
article, 6 r\ to, which answers to our definite, or proper article, 
the. They have no word which answers to our article a ; but 
they supply its place by the absence of their article : Thus, 
BamXivc signifies a king ; 6 BaaiXevg, the king. The Latins have 
no article. In the room of it they employ pronouns, as hie, Me, 
iste, for pointing out the objects which they want to distinguish. 
" Noster sermo," says Quintilian, " articulos non desiderat, 
ideoque in alias partes orationis sparguntur." This, however, ap- 
pears to me a defect in the Latin tongue ; as articles contribute 
much to the clearness and precision of language. 

In order to illustrate this, remark what difference there is in 
the meaning of the following expressions in English, depending 
wholly on tli e different emplovment of the articles: "The son 



STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 01 

" of a king — The son of the king — A son of the king's." Each 
of these three phrases has an entirely different meaning, which I 
need not explain, because any one who understands the language 
conceives it clearly at first hearing, through the different appli- 
cation of the articles, a and the. Whereas, in Latin, " Filius 
regis," is wholly undetermined ; and to explain, in which of 
these three senses it is to be understood, for it may bear any of 
them, a circumlocution of several words must be used. In the 
same manner, " Are you a king ?" " Are you the king ? are 
questions of quite separate import ; which, however, are con- 
founded together in the Latin phrase, " esne tu rex ?" " Thou art 
a man," is a very general and harmless position ; but, " thou art 
the man," is an assertion capable, we know, of striking terror 
and remorse into the heart. These observations illustrate the 
force and importance of articles ; and, at the same time, I glad- 
ly lay hold of any opportunity of showing the advantages of our 
own language. 

Besides this quality of being particularised by the article, 
three affections belong to substantive nouns, number, gender, 
and case, which require our consideration. 

Number distinguishes them as one, or many, of the same 
kind, called the singular and plural ; a distinction found in all 
languages, and which must, indeed, have been coeval with the 
very infancy of language ; as there were few things which men 
had more frequent occasion to express, than the difference be- 
tween one and many. For the greater facility of expressing it, 
it has, in all languages, been marked by some variation made 
upon the substantive noun ; as we see, in English, our plural is 
commonly formed by the addition of the letter s, In the He- 
brew, Greek, and some other ancient languages, we find, not only 
a plural, but a dual number ; the rise of which may very natu- 
rally be accounted for, from separate terms of numbering not 
being yet invented, and one, two, and many, being all, or at 
least, the chief numeral distinctions which men, at first, had any 
occasion to take notice of. 

Gender is an affection of substantive nouns, which will lead 
us into more discussion than number. Gender being founded 
on the distinction of the two sexes, it is plain that, in a proper 
sense, it can only find place in the names of living creatures, 
which admit the distinction of male and female ; and, therefore, 
can be ranged under the masculine or feminine gender. All 
other substantive nouns ought to belong to what grammarians 



02 LECTURR VIII. 

call the neuter gender, which is meant to imply the negation of 
either sex. But, with respect to this distribution, somewhat 
singular hath obtained in the structure of language. For, in 
correspondence to that distinction of male and female sex, 
which runs through all the classes of animals, men have, in 
most, languages, ranked a great number of inanimate objects 
also, under the like distinctions of masculine and feminine 
Thus we find it, both in the Greek and Latin tongues. Gladius, 
a sword, for instance, is masculine ; sagitta, an arrow, is femi- 
nine ; and this assignation of sex to inanimate objects, this dis- 
tinction of them into masculine and feminine, appears often to be 
entirely capricious ; derived from no other principle than the 
casual structure of the language, which refers to a certain gen- 
der words of a certain termination. In the Greek and Latin, 
however, all inanimate objects are not distributed into mascu- 
line and feminine ; but many of them are also classed where all 
of them ought to have been, under the neuter gender ; as, tern- 
plum, a church ; sedile, a seat. 

But the genius of the French and Italian tongues differs, in 
this resj>ect, from the Greek and Latin. In the French and 
Italian, from whatever cause it has happened, so it is, that the 
neuter gender is wholly unknown, and that all their names of in- 
animate objects are put upon the same footing with living crea- 
tures ; and distributed, without exception, into masculine and 
feminine. The French have two articles, the masculine le, and 
the feminine la ; and one or other of these is prefixed to all sub- 
stantive nouns in the language, to denote their gender. The 
Italians make the same universal use of their articles il and lo 
for the masculine ; and la for the feminine. 

In the English language it is remarkable that there obtains 
a peculiarity quite opposite. In the French and Italian, there 
is no neuter gender. In the English, when we use common dis- 
course, all substantive nouns, that are not names of living crea- 
tures, are neuter without exception. He, she, and it, are the 
marks of the three genders ; and we always use it, in speaking 
of any object where there is no sex, or where the sex is not 
known. The English is, perhaps, the only language in the 
known world (except the Chinese, which is said to agree with it 
in this particular) where the distinction of gender is properly 
and philosophically applied in the use of words, and confined, 
as it ought to be, to mark the real distinctions of male and fe- 
male. 



STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 03 

Hence arises a very great and signal advantage of the 
English tongue, which it is of consequence to remark.* Though 
in common discourse, as I have already observed, we employ 
only the proper and literal distinctions of sexes ; yet the geniu3 
of the language permits us, whenever it will add beauty to our 
discourse, to make the names of inanimate objects masculine or 
feminine in a metaphorical sense ; and when we do so, we are 
understood to quit the literal style, and to use one of the figures 
of discourse. 

For instance ; if I am speaking of virtue, in the course of 
ordinary conversation, or of strict reasoning, I refer the word 
to no sex or gender ; I say, " Virtue is its own reward ;" or, 
" it is the law of our nature." But if I choose to rise into a 
higher tone ; if T seek to embellish and animate my discourse, 
I give a sex to virtue ; I say, " She descends from heaven ;" 
" she alone confers true honour upon man ;" " her gifts are the 
only durable rewards." By this means, we have it in our power 
to vary our style at pleasure. By making a very slight altera- 
tion, we can personify any object that we choose to introduce 
with digirlty ; and by this change of manner, we give warning, 
that we are passing from the strict and logical, to the ornamented 
and rhetorical style. 

This is an advantage which not only every poet, but every 
good writer and speaker in prose, is, on many occasions, glad to 
lay hold of, and improve ; and it is an advantage peculiar to 
our tongue ; no other language possesses it. For in other lan- 
guages, every word has one fixed gender, masculine, feminine, or 
neuter, which can upon no occasion be changed.: apm), for in- 
stance, in Greek ; virtus, in Latin ; and la verlu in French, are 
uniformly feminine. She must always be the pronoun answering 
to the word, whether you be writing in poetry or in prose, whe- 
ther you be using the style of reasoning, or that of declamation: 
whereas, in English, we can either express ourselves with the 
philosophical accuracy of giving no gender to things inanimate ; 
or by giving gender, and transforming them into persons, we 
adapt them to the style of poetry, and, when it is proper, we en- 
liven prose. 

It deserves to be further remarked on this subject, that, 
when Ave employ that liberty which our language allows, of as- 
cribing sex to any inanimate object, we have not, however, the 
liberty of making it of what gender we please, masculine or 

• The following observations on the metaphorical use of genders in the 
English language, are taken from Mr. Harris's Hermes. 



\ 



04 LECTURE VIII. 

feminine ; but are, in general, subjected to some rule of gender 
which the currency of language has fixed to that object. The 
foundation of that rule is imagined, by Mr. Harris, in his 
" Philosophical Enquiry into the Principles of Grammar," to 
be laid in a certain distant resemblance, or analogy, to the 
natural distinction of the two sexes. 

Thus, according to him, we commonly give the masculine 
gender to those substantive nouns used figuratively, which are 
conspicuous for the attributes of imparting, or communicating ; 
which are by nature strong and efficacious, either to good or 
evil ; or which have a claim to some eminence, whether laudable 
or not. Those, again, he imagines to be generally made femi- 
nine, which are conspicuous for the attributes of containing, 
and of bringing forth ; which have more of the passive in their 
nature, than of the active ; which are peculiarly beautiful or 
amiable ; or which have respect to such excesses as are rather 
feminine than masculine. Upon these principles he takes notice, 
that the sun is always put in the masculine gender with us ; the 
moon in the feminine, as being the receptacle of the sun's light. 
The earth is universally feminine. A ship, a country, a city, 
are likewise made feminine, as receivers or containers. God, 
in all languages, is masculine. Time, we make masculine, on 
account of its mighty efficacy ; virtue, feminine, from its beauty, 
and its being the object of love. Fortune is always feminine. 
Mr. Harris imagines, that the reasons which determine the 
gender of such capital words as these, hold in most other lan- 
guages, as well as the English. This, however, appears doubt- 
ful. A variety of circumstances, which seem casual to us, 
because we cannot reduce them to principles, must, unquestion- 
ably, have influenced the original formation of languages ; and 
in no article whatever does language appear to have been more 
capricious, and to have proceeded less according to fixed rule, 
than in the imposition of gender upon things inanimate ; es- 
pecially among such nations as have applied the distinction of 
masculine and feminine to all substantive nouns. 

Having discussed gender, I proceed, next, to another re- 
markable peculiarity of substantive nouns, which, in the style of 
grammar, is called their declension by cases. Let us, first 
consider what cases signify. In order to understand this, it is 
necessary to observe, that, after men had given names to exter- 
nal objects, had particularised them by means of the article, and 
distinguished them by number and gender, still their language 
remained extremely imperfect, till they had devised some 



STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 05 

method of expressing the relations which those objects bore, 
one towards another. They would find it of little use to have a 
name for man, lion, tree, river, without being able, at the same 
time, to signify how these stood with respect to each other ; 
whether, as approaching to, receding from, joined with, and the 
like. Indeed, the relations which objects bear to one another 
are immensely numerous : and therefore, to devise names for 
them all, must have been among the last and most difficult re- 
finements of language. But, in its most early periods, it was 
absolutely necessary to express, in some way or other, such re- 
lations as were most important, and as occurred most frequently 
in common speech. Hence the genitive, dative, and ablative 
cases of nouns, which express the noun itself together with those 
relations, of, to, from, with, and by ; the relations which we have 
the most frequent occasion to mention. The proper idea then 
of cases in declension, is no other than an expression of the 
state, or relation, which one object bears to another, denoted by 
some variation, made upon the name of that object ; most com- 
monly in the final letters, and by some languages, in the initial. 

All languages, however, do not agree in this mode of expres- 
sion. The Greek, Latin, and several other languages, use de- 
clension. The English, French, and Italian, do not; or, at 
most, use it very innperfectly. In place of the variations of 
cases, the modern tongues express the relations of objects, by 
means of the words called prepositions, which denote those rela- 
tions, prefixed to the name of the object. English nouns have 
no case whatever, except a sort of genitive, commonly formed 
by the addition of the letter s to the noun ; as when we say, 
"Dryden's poems," meaning the poems of Dryden. Our per- 
sonal pronouns have also a case, which answers to the accusa- 
tive of the Latin, I, me, — he, him, — who, whom. There is 
nothing, then, or at least Very little, in the grammar of our 
language, which corresponds to declension in the ancient lan- 
guages. 

Two questions, respecting this subject, may be put* First, 
Which of these methods of expressing relations, whether that 
by declension, or that by prepositions, was the most ancient 
usage in language ; And, next, Which of them has the best 
effect? Both methods, it is plain, are the same as to the sense, 
and differ only in form. For the significancy of the Roman 
language would not have been altered, though the nouns, like 
ours, had been without cases, provided they had employed 
prepositions ; and though., to express a disciple of Plato, they 



yd LECTURE VIII. 

had said, "Discipulus de Plato," like the modern Kalians,, in 
place of " Discipulus Platonis." 

Now, with respect to the antiquity of cases, although they 
may, on first view, seem to constitute a more artificial method 
than the other, of denoting relations, yet there are strong 
reasons for thinking that this was the eaidiest method practised 
by men. We find, in fact, that declensions and cases are used 
in most of what are called the mother tongues, or original 
languages, as well as in the Greek and Latin. And a very 
natural and satisfying account can be given why this usage 
should have early obtained. Relations are the most abstract 
and metaphysical ideas of any which men have occasion to 
form, when they are considered by themselves, and separated 
from the related object. It would puzzle any man, as has been 
well observed by an author on this subject, to give a distinct 
account of what is meant by such a word as of or from, when 
it stands by itself, and to explain all that may be included 
under it. The first rude inventors of language, therefore, would 
not, for a long while, arrive at such general terms. In place 
of considering any relation in the abstract, and devising a name 
for it, they would much more easily conceive it in conjunction 
with a particular object ; and they would express their concep- 
tions of it, by varying the name of that object through all the 
different cases, homhris, of a man ; homitii, to a man ; homim, 
with a man, &c. 

But though this method of declension was, probably, the 
only method which men employed at first for denoting relations, 
yet, in progress of time, many other relations being observed, 
besides those which are signified by the cases of nouns, and men 
also becoming more capable of general and metaphysical ideas, 
separate names were gradually invented for all the relations 
which occurred, forming that part of speech which we now call 
prepositions. Prepositions being once introduced, they were 
found to be capable of supplying the place of cases, by being 
prefixed to the nominative of the noun. Hence, it came to pass, 
that, as nations were intermixed, by migrations and conquests, 
and were obliged to learn and adopt the languages of one 
another, prepositions supplanted the use of cases and declen- 
sions. When the Italian tongue, for instance, sprung out of the 
Roman, it was found more easy and simple, by the Gothic nations, 
to accommodate a few prepositions to the nominative of every 
noun, and to say, di Roma, at Roma, di Carthago, al Carthago, than 
to remember all the variety of tei minations, Rome, Romam, Qar- 



STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 97 

thagninis, Carthaginem, which the use of declensions required in 
the aacient nouns. By this progress we can give a natural ac- 
count how nouns, in our modern tongues came to be so void 
of declension : a progress which is fully illustrated in Dr. Adam 
Smith's ingenious Dissertation on the Formation of Languages. 

With regard to the other question on this subject, which of 
these two methods is of the greater utility and beauty ; we 
shall find advantages and disadvantages to be balanced on both 
sides. There is no doubt that, by abolishing cases, we have 
rendered the structure of modern languages more simple. We 
have disembarrased it of all the intricacy which arose from the 
different forms of declension, of which the Romans had no fewer 
than five ; and from all the irregularities in these several declen- 
sions. We have thereby rendered our languages more easy 
to be acquired, and less subject to the perplexity of rules. But, 
though the simplicity and ease of language be great and esti- 
mable advantages, yet there are also such disadvantages attend- 
ing the modern method, as leave the balance, on the whole, 
doubtful, or rather incline it to the side of antiquity. 

For, in the first place, by our constant use of prepositions 
for expressing the relations of things, we have filled language 
with a multitude of those little words, which are eternally 
occurring in every sentence, and may be thought thereby to 
have encumbered speech, by an addition of terms ; and, by ren- 
dering it more prolix, to have enervated its force. In the second 
place, we have certainly rendered the sound of language less 
agreeable to the ear, by depriving it of that variety and sweet- 
ness which arose from the length of wouds, and the change 
of terminations, occasioned by the cases in the Greek and 
Latin. But, in the third place, the most material disadvantage 
is that, by this abolition of cases, and by a similar alteration, 
of which I am to speak in the next lecture, in the conjugation 
of verbs, we have deprived ourselves of that liberty of transposi- 
tion in the arrangement of words, which the ancient languages 
enjoyed. 

In the ancient tongues, as I formerly observed, the different 
terminations, produced by declension and conjugation, pointed out 
the reference of the several words of a sentence to one another, 
without the aid of juxtaposition ; suffered them to be placed, 
without ambiguity, in whatever order was most suited to give 
force to the meaning, or harmony to the sound. But now, hav- 
ing none of those marks of relation, incorporated with the 
words themselves, we have no other way left us, of showiu 

H 



38 LECTURE 

what words in a sentence are most closely connected in meaning 
than that of placing them close by one another in the period. 
The meaning of the sentence is brought out in separate members, 
and portions ; it is broken down and divided. Whereas the 
structure of the Greek and Roman sentences, by the government 
of their nouns and verbs, presented the meaning so interwoven 
and compounded in all its parts, as to make us perceive it in 
one united view. The closing words of the period ascertained 
the relation of each member to another ; and all that ought to 
be connected in our idea appeared connected in the expression. 
Hence, more brevity, more vivacity, more force. That luggage 
of particles, (as an ingenious author happily expresses it,) which 
we are obliged always to carry along with us, both clogs the 
style, and enfeebles the sentiment.* 

Pronouns are the class of words most nearly related to sub- 
stantive nouns ; being, as the name imports, representatives, or 
substitutes, of nouns. /, thou, she, he, and it, are no other than 
an abridged way of naming the persons, or objects, with which 
we have immediate intercourse, or to which we are obliged fre- 
quently to refer in discourse. Accordingly, they are subject to 
the same modifications with substantive nouns, of number, gen- 
der, and case. Only, with respect to gender, we may observe, 
that the pronouns of the first and second person, as they are 
called, I, and thou, do not appear to have had the distinctions of 
gender given them in any language ; for this plain reason, that 
as they always refer to persons who are present to each other 
when they speak, their sex must appear, and therefore needs not 
be marked by a masculine or feminine pronoun. But, as the 
third person may be absent, or unknown, the distinction of gen- 
der there becomes necessary ; and accordingly, in English, it 

* " The various terminations of the same word, whether verb or noun, are al- 
ways conceived to be more intimately connected with the term which they serve 
to lengthen, than the additional, detached, and in themselves insignificant parti- 
cles, which we are obliged to employ as connectives to our significant words. 
Our method gives almost the same exposure to the one as to the other, making 
the significant parts, and the insignificant, equally conspicuous ; theirs much 
oftener sinks, as it were, the former into the latter, at once preserving their use, 
and hiding their weakness. Our modern languages may, in this respect, be com- 
pared to the art of the carpenter in its rudest state ; when the union of the mate- 
rials employed by the. artisan could be effected only by the help of those external 
and coarse implements, pins, nails, and cramps. The ancient languages resemble 
ijie. same art in its most improved state, after the invention of dovetail joints, 
grooves, and mortices; when thus all the principal junctions are effected, by 
forming properly the extremities, or terminations, of the pieces to be joined. 
For, by means of these, the union of the parts is rendered closer ; while that by 
which that union is produced, is scarcely perceivable."— The Philosophy of Rhe- 
toric bv Dr. Campbell, vol. ii. p. 41.2. 



STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE 99 

hath all the three genders belonging to it ; he, she, it. As to cases ; 
even those languages which have dropped them in substantive 
nouns, sometimes retain more of them in pronouns, for the sake 
of the greater readiness in expressing relations ; as pronouns are 
words of such frequent, occurrences in discourse. In English, 
most of our grammarians hold the personal pronouns to have two 
cases besides the nominative ; a genitive, and an accusative. — 1, 
mine, me ; — thou, thine, thee ; — he, his, him ; — who, whose, whom. 

Tn the first stage of speech, it is probable that the places 
of those pronouns were supplied by pointing to the object when 
present, and naming it when absent. For one can hardly think 
that pronouns were of early invention ; as they are words of 
such a particular and artificial nature. 7, thou, he, it, it is to be 
observed, are not names peculiar to any single object, but so very 
general, that they may be applied to all persons, or objects what- 
ever, in certain circumstances. It, is the most general term 
that can possibly be conceived, as it may stand for any one thing 
in the universe of which we speak. At the same time, these pro- 
nouns have this quality, that, in the circumstances in which they 
are applied, they never denote more than one precise individual ; 
which they ascertain and specify, much in the same manner as is 
done by the article. So that pronouns are, at once, the most 
general, and the most particular words in language* They are 
commonly the most irregular and troublesome words to the learn- 
er, in the grammar of all tongues ; as being the words most in 
common use, and subjected thereby to the greatest varieties. 

Adjectives, or terms of quality, such as great, little, black, 
white, yours, ours, are the plainest, and simplest of all that class 
of words which are termed attributive. They are found in all 
languages ;| and, in all languages, must have been very early in-| 
vented; /as objects could not be distinguished from one another, 
nor any intercourse be carried on concerning them, till once 
names were given to their different qualities. 

I have nothing to observe in relation to them, except that 
singularity which attends them in the Greek and Latin, of 
having the same form given them with substantive nouns ; 
being declined, like them, by cases, and subjected to the like 
distinctions of number and gender. Hence it has happened 
that grammarians have made them to belong to the same part 
of speech, and divided the noun into substantive and adjective ; 
an arrangement founded more on attention to the external form 
of words, than to their nature and force. For adjectives ; or 
terms of quality, have not, by their nature, the least resem- 

112 



100 LECTURE 1A. 

blance to substantive nouns, as they never express any thing 
which can possibly exist by itself; which is the very essence ol 
the substantive noun ; they are, indeed, more akin to verb? 
which, like them, express the attribute of some substance. 

It may, at first view, appear somewhat odd and fantastic, 
the adjectives should, in ancient languages, have assumed so 
much the form of substantives ; since neither number nor gender, 
nor cases, nor relations, have any thing to do, in a proper 
sense, with mere qualities, such as, good or great, soft or hard 
And yet bonus, and magnus, and tener, have their singular and 
plural, their masculine and feminine, their genitives and datives, 
like any of the names of substances, or persons. But this can 
be accounted for, from the genius of those tongues. They 
avoided, as much as possible, considering qualities separately, 
or in the abstract. They made them a part or appendage of 
the substance which they served to distinguish ; they made the 
adjective depend on its substantive, and resemble it in termina- 
tion, in number, and gender, in order that the two might coalesce 
the more intimately, and be joined in the form of expression, 
as they were in the nature of things. The liberty of transposi- 
tion, too, which those languages indulged, required such a 
method as this to be followed. For, allowing the related words 
of a sentence to be placed at a distance from each other, it 
required the relation of adjectives to their proper substantives 
to be pointed out, by such similar circumstances of form and 
termination, as, according to the grammatical style, should 
show their concordance. When I say, in English, the " beautiful 
wife of a brave man," the juxtaposition of the words prevents 
all ambiguity. But when I say in Latin, " formosa fortis viri 
uxor ;" it is only the agreement, in gender, number, and case, of 
the adjective " formosa," which is the first word of the sentence, 
with the substantive "■ uxor," which is the last word, that de- 
clares the meaning. 



LECTURE IX. 

STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE.— ENGLISH TONGUE. 

Of the whole class of words that are called attributive, in- 
deed, of all the parts of speech, the most complex, by far, is the 
verb. It is chiefly in this part of speech, that the subtile and 
profound metaphysic of language appears ; and therefore, in 



STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 

examining the nature and different variations of the verb, there 
might be room for ample discussion. But as I am sensible that 
such grammatical discussions, when they are pursued far, be- 
come intricate and obscure, I shall avoid dwelling any longer 
on this subject, than seems absolutely necessary. 

The verb is so far of the same nature with the adjective, 
that it expresses, like it, an attribute, or property, of some 
person or thing. But it does more than this. For, in all verbs, 
in every language, there are no less than three things implied at 
once ; the attribute of some substantive, an affirmation concern- 
ing that attribute, and time. Thus, when I say, " the sun 
shineth ;" shining is the attribute ascribed to the sun ; the pre- 
sent time is marked ; and an affirmation is included, that this 
property of shining belongs, at that time, to the sun. The 
participle " shining," is merely an adjective, which denotes an 
attribute, or property, and also expresses time ; but carries no 
affirmation. The infinitive mood, " to shine," may be called the 
name of the verb ; it carries neither time nor affirmation, but 
simply expresses that attribute, action, or state of things, which 
is to be the subject of the other moods and tenses. Hence the 
infinitive often carries the resemblance of a substantive noun ; 
and both in English and Latin, is sometimes constructed as 
such. As, " scire tuum nihil est." " Dulce et decorum est pro 
patria mori." And, in English, in the same manner : " To write 
well is difficult ; to speak eloquently is still more difficult." But 
as, through all the other tenses and moods, the affirmation runs, 
and is essential to them ; " the sun shineth, was shining, shone, 
will shine, would have shone," &c. the affirmation seems to be 
that which chiefly distinguishes the verb from the other parts of 
speech, and gives it its most conspicuous power. Hence there 
can be no sentence, or complete proposition, without a verb 
either expressed or implied. For, whenever we speak, we al- 
ways mean to assert, that something is, or is not ; and the 
word which carries this assertion, or affirmation, is a verb. 
From this sort of eminence belonging to it, this part of speech 
hath received its name, verb, from the Latin, verbum, or the 
word, by way of distinction. 

Verbs, therefore, from their importance and necessity in 
speech, must have been coeval with men's first attempts towards 
the formation of language : though, indeed, it must have been 
the work of long time, to rear them up to that accurate and 
complex structure which they now possess. It seems very pro- 
bable, as Dr. Smith has suggested, that the radical verb, or the 



102 LECTURE IX. 

first form of it, in most languages, would be, what we now call, 
the impersonal verb : " It rains ; it thunders ; it is light ; it is 
agreeable ;" and the like ; as this is the very simplest form of 
the verb, and merely affirms the existence of an event, or of a 
state of things. By degrees, after pronouns were invented, 
such verbs became personal, and were branched out into all the 
variety of tenses and moods. 

The tenses of the verb are contrived to imply the several dis- 
tinctions of time. Of these I must take some notice, in order to 
show the admirable accuracy with which language is constructed. 
We think, commonly, of no more than the three great divisions 
of time, into the past, the present, and the future ; and we might 
imagine, that if verbs had been so contrived as simply to ex- 
press these, no more was needful. But language proceeds' with 
much greater subtilty. It splits time into its several moments ; 
it considers time as never standing still, but always flowing ; 
things past, as more or less perfectly completed ; and things 
future, as more or less remote, by different gradations. Hence 
the great variety of tenses in most tongues. 

The present may indeed be always considered as one indi- 
visible point, susceptible of no variety ; " I write, or I am writ- 
ing ; scribo." But it is not so with the past. There is no 
language so poor, but it hath two or three tenses to express the 
varieties of it. Ours hath no fewer than four. 1. A past action 
may be considered as left unfinished, which makes the imperfect 
tense, " I was writing ; scribebam." % As just now finished. 
This makes the proper perfect tense, which, in English, is 
always expressed by the help of the auxiliary verb, " I have 
written." 3. It may be considered as finished some time ago ; 
the particular time left indefinite. " I wrote ; scripsi ;" which 
may either signify, " I wrote yesterday, or I wrote a twelvemonth 
ago." This is what grammarians call an aorist, or indefinite 
past. 4. It may be considered as finished before something else, 
which is also past. •This is the plusquamperfect. " I had writ- 
ten ; scripseram. I had written before I received his letter." 

Here we observe, with some pleasure, that we have an ad- 
vantage over the Latins, who have only three varieties upon the 
past time. They have no proper perfect tense, or one which 
distinguishes an action just now finished, from an action that 
was finished some time ago. In both these cases they must say 
scripsi : though there be a manifest difference in the tenses, which 
our language expresses by this variation, " I have written," 
meaning, I have just now finished writing ; and " I wrote," 



STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. , 103 

meaning at some former time, since which other things have 
intervened. This difference the Romans have no tense to ex- 
press ; and, therefore, can only do it by a circumlocution. 

The chief varieties in the future time are two, a simple or in- 
definite future ; " I shall write ; scribam :" and a future, relating 
to something else, which is also future ; " I shall have written ; 
tcripsero." I shall have written before he arrives.* 

Besides tenses, or the power of expressing time, verbs admit 
the distinction of voices, as they are called, the active and the 
passive ; according as the affirmation respects something that is 
done, or something that is suffered ; K I love, or I am loved." 
They admit also the distinction of moods, which are designed to 
express the affirmation, whether active or passive, under different 
forms. The indicative mood, for instance, simply declares a 
proposition. " I write ; I have written :" the imperative re- 
quires, commands, threatens, " write thou ; let him write :" the 
subjunctive expresses the proposition under the form of a con- 
dition, or in subordination to some other thing, to which a 
reference is made, " I might write, I could Avrite, I should write, 
if the case were so and so." This manner of expressing an 
affirmation, under so many different forms, together also with 
the distinction of the three persons, I, thou, and he, constitutes 
what is called the conjugation of verbs, which makes so great a 
part of the grammar of all languages. 

It now clearly appears, as I before observed, that, of all the 
parts of speech, verbs are by far the most artificial and complex. 
Consider only how many things are denoted by this single 
Latin word, amavissem, " I would have loved." First, the per- 
son who speaks, "I:" secondly, an attribute, or action of that 
person, " loving :" thirdly, an affirmation concerning that action : 
fourthly, the past time denoted in that affirmation, " have loved :" 
and, fifthly, a condition on which the action is suspended, ''• would 
have loved." It appears curious and remarkable, that words of 
this complex import, and with more or less of this artificial 
structure, are to be found, as far as we know, in all languages 
of the world. 

Indeed, the form of conjugation, or the manner of expressing 
all these varieties in the verb, differs greatly in different tongues. 
Conjugation is esteemed most perfect in those languages, which, 
by varying either the termination or the initial syllable of the 

* On the tenses of verbs, Mr. Harris's Hermes may be consulted, by such as 
desire to see them scrutinised with metaphysical accuracy ; and also, the Trea- 
tise on the Origin and Progress of Language, vol. ii. p. 125. 



104 LECTURE IX. 

verb, express the greatest number of important circumstances, 
without the help of auxiliary words. In the oriental tongues, 
the verbs are said to have few tenses, or expressions of time ; 
but then their moods are so contrived, as to express a great va- 
riety of circumstances and relations. In the Hebrew, for in- 
stance, they say, in one word, without the help of any auxiliary, 
not only, " I have taught," but, " I have taught exactly, or often ; 
I have been commanded to teach ; I have taught myself." The 
Greek, which is the most perfect of all the known tongues, is 
very regular and complete in all the tenses and moods. The 
Latin is formed on the same model, but more imperfect, es- 
pecially in the passive voice, which forms most of the tenses by 
the help of the auxiliary, sum. 

In all the modern European tongues, conjugation is very 
defective. They admit few varieties in the termination of the 
verb itself ; but have almost constant recourse to their auxiliary 
verbs, throughout all the moods and tenses, both active and 
passive. Language has undergone a change in conjugation, 
perfectly similar to that which, I showed in the last lecture, it 
underwent with respect to declension. As prepositions, prefixed 
to the noun, superseded the use of cases, so the two great 
auxiliary verbs, to have, and to be, with those other auxiliaries, 
which we use in English, do, shall, will, may, and can, prefixed to 
the participle, supersede, in a great measure, the different ter- 
minations of moods and tenses, which formed the ancient conju- 
gations. 

The alteration, in both cases, was owing to the same cause, 
and will be easily understood, from reflecting on what was for- 
merly observed. The auxiliary verbs are, like prepositions, 
words of a very general and abstract nature. They imply the 
different modifications of simple existence, considered alone, 
and without reference to any particular thing. In the early 
state of speech, the import of them would be incorporated with 
every particular verb in its tenses and moods, long before words 
were invented for denoting such abstract conceptions of exist- 
ence alone, and by themselves. But after those auxiliary verbs 
came, in the progress of language, to be invented and known, 
and to have tenses and moods given to them, like other verbs, it 
was found that, as they carried in their nature the force of that 
affirmation which distinguishes the verb, they might, by being 
joined with the participle which gives the meaning of the verb, 
supply the place of most of the moods and tenses. Hence, as 
the modern tongues began to rise out of the ruins of the ancient, 



THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 103 

this method established itself in the new formation of speech. 
Such words, for instance, as, am, tvas, have, shall, being once fa- 
miliar, it appeared more easy to apply these to any verb what- 
ever, as, " I am loved ; I was loved ; I have loved," than to re- 
member that variety of terminations which were requisite in con- 
jugating the ancient verbs, amor, amabar, amavi, &c. Two or 
three varieties only, in the termination of the verb, were retained, 
as, love, loved, loving, and all the rest were dropped. The conse- 
quence, however, of this practice, was the same as that of abol- 
ishing declensions. It rendered language more simple and easy 
in its structure ; but, withal, more prolix, and less graceful. This 
finishes all that seemed most necessary to be observed with re- 
spect to verbs. 

The remaining parts of speech, which are called the inde- 
clinable parts, or that admit of no variations, will not detain us 
long. 

Adverbs are the first that occur. These form a very nume- 
rous class of words in every language, reducible, in general, to 
the head of attributives, as they serve to modify, or to denote some 
circumstance of an action, or of a quality, relative to its time, 
place, order, degree, and the other properties of it, which we 
have occasion to specify. They are, for the most part, no more 
than an abridged mode of speech, expressing by one word, what 
might, by a circumlocution, be resolved into two or more words, 
belonging to the other parts of speech. " Exceedingly," for in- 
stance, is the same as " in a high degree ;" " bravely" the same 
as " with bravery or valour ;" " here" the same as " in this 
place ;" " often, and seldom," the same as " for many, and for 
few times ;" and so of the rest. Hence, adverbs may be con- 
ceived as of less necessity, and of later introduction into the 
system of speech, than many other classes of words ; and, ac- 
cordingly, the great body of them are derived from other words 
formerly established in the language. 

Prepositions and conjunctions are words more essential to dis- 
course than the greatest part of adverbs. They form that 
class of words called connectives, without which there could be 
no language, serving to express the relations which things bear 
to one another, their mutual influence, dependencies, and cohe- 
rence, thereby joining words together into intelligible and sig- 
nificant propositions. Conjunctions are generally employed for 
connecting sentences, or members of sentences ; as, and, because, 
although, and the like. Prepositions are employed for connecting 
weirds, by showing the relation which one substantive noun bears 



J 06 LECTURE IX. 

to another; as, of from, to, above, below, Sec. Of the force of 
these I had occasion to speak, before, when treating of the cases 
and declensions of substantive nouns. 

It is abundantly evident, that all these connective particles 
must be of the greatest use in speech ; seeing they point out the 
relations and transitions by which the mind passes from one idea 
to another. They are the foundation of all reasoning, which is 
no other thing than the connexion of thoughts. And, therefore, 
though among barbarous nations, and in the rude uncivilized ages 
of the world, the stock of these words might be small, it must 
always have increased, as mankind advanced in the arts of rea- 
soning and reflection. The more that any nation is improved by 
science, and the more perfect their language becomes, we may 
naturally expect, that it will abound more with connective parti- 
cles ; expressing relations of things, and transitions of thought, 
which had escaped a grosser view. Accordingly, no tongue is so 
full of them as the Greek, in consequence of the acute and sub- 
tile genius of that refined people. In every language, much of 
the beauty and strength of it depends on the proper use of con- 
junctions, prepositions, and those relative pronouns, which also 
serve the same purpose of connecting the different parts of dis- 
/ course. It is the right or wrong management of these, which 
chiefly makes discourse appear firm and compacted, or disjointed 
and loose ; which carries it on in its progress with a smooth 
and even pace, or renders its march irregular and desultory 

I shall dwell no longer on the general construction of lan- 
guage. Allow me, only, before I dismiss the subject, to observe, 
that, dry and intricate as it may seem to some, it is, however, of 
great importance, and very nearly connected with the philosophy 
of the human mind. For, if speech be the vehicle, or interpre- 
ter of the conceptions of our minds, an examination of its struc- 
ture and progress cannot but unfold many things concerning the 
nature and progress of our conceptions themselves, and the ope- 
rations of our faculties ; a subject that is always instructive to 
man. " Ne quis," says Quintilian, an author of excellent judg- 
ment, " ne quis tanquam parva fastidiat grammatices elementa. 
Non quia magna; sit opera; consonantes a vocalibus discernere, 
easque in semivocalium numerum, mutarumque partiri ; sed quia 
interiora velut sacri hujus adeuntibus, apparebit multa rerum 
subtilitas, quae non modo acuere ingenia puerilia, sed exercere 
altissimam quoque eruditionem ac scientiam possit."* i. 4. 

* " Let no man despise, as inconsiderable, the elements of grammar, because it 
may seem to him a matter of small consequence* to show the distinction between 



THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 107 

Let us now come nearer to our own language. In this, and the 
preceding lecture, some observations have already been made 
on its structure. But it is proper that we should be a little more 
particular in the examination of it. 

The language, which is at present spoken throughout Great 
Britain, is neither the ancient primitive speech of the island, nor 
derived from it ; but is altogether of foreign origin. The lan- 
guage of the first inhabitants of our island, beyond doubt, was 
the Celtic, or Gaelic, common to them with Gaul ; from which 
country it appears, by many circumstances, that Great Britain 
was peopled. This Celtic tongue, which is said to be very ex- 
pressive and copious, and is, probably, one of most ancient 
languages in the world, obtained once in most of the western 
regions of Europe. It was the language of Gaul, of Great 
Britain, of Ireland, and, very probably, of Spain also ; till, in 
the course of those revolutions, which, by means of the conquests, 
first, of the Romans, and afterwards, of the northern nations, 
changed the government, speech, and, in a manner, the whole 
face of Europe, this tongue was gradually obliterated ; and now 
subsists only in the mountains of Wales, in the highlands of / 
Scotland, and among the wild Irish. For the Irish, the Welsh, 
and the Erse, are no other than different dialects of the same 
tongue, the ancient Celtic. 

This, then, was the language of the primitive Britons, the 
first inhabitants that we know of, in our island ; and continued 
so till the arrival of the Saxons in England, in the year of our 
Lord 450 ; who, having conquered the Britons, did not intermix 
with them, but expelled them from their habitations, and drove 
them, together with their language, into the mountains of Wales. 
The Saxons were one of those northern nations that overran 
Europe -and their tongue, a dialect of the Gothic, or Teutonic, 
altogether distinct from the Celtic, laid the foundation of the 
present English tongue. With some intermixture of Danish, a 
language, probably, from the same root with the Saxon, it con 
tinued to be spoken throughout the southern part of the island 
till the time of William the Conqueror. He introduced his 
Norman or French as tlie language of the court, which made a 

>owels and consonants, and to divide the latter into liquids and mutes. But 
they who penetrate into the innermost parts of this temple of science, will there 
discover such refinement and subtilty of matter, as is not only proper to sharpen 
the understandings of young men, but sufficient to give exercise for the most 
profound knowledge and erudition." 



100 LECTURE IX. 

considerable change in the speech of the nation ; and the English 
which was spoken afterwards, and continues to be spoken now, \ 
is a mixture of the ancient Saxon, and this Norman French, 
together with such new and foreign words as commerce and 
learning have, in progress of time, gradually introduced. 

The history of the English language can, in this manner, be 
clearly traced. The language spoken in the low countries of 
Scotland, is now, and has been for many centuries, no other 
than a dialect of the English. How, indeed, or by what steps 
the ancient Celtic tongue came to be banished from the low 
country in Scotland, and to make its retreat into the highlands 
and islands, cannot be so well pointed out, as how the like revo- 
lution was brought about in England. Whether the southern- 
most part of Scotland was once subject to the Saxons, and 
formed a part of the kingdom of Northumberland; or, whether 
the great number of English exiles that retreated into Scotland, 
upon the Norman conquest, and upon other occasions, introduced 
into that country their own language, which afterwards, by the 
mutual intercourse of the two nations, prevailed over the Celtic, 
are uncertain and contested points, the discussion of which 
would lead us too far from our subject. 

From what has been said, it appears, that the Teutonic 
dialect is the basis of our present speech. It has been imported 
among us in three different forms, the Saxon, the Danish, and 
the Norman ; all which have mingled together in our language. 
A very great number of our words, too, are plainly derived from 
the Latin. These we had not directly from the Latin, but most 
of them, it is probable, entered into our tongue through the 
channel of that Norman French, which William the Conqueror 
introduced. For, as the Romans had long been in full pos- 
session of Gaul, the language spoken in that country, when it 
was invaded by the Franks and Normans, was a sort of cor 
rupted Latin, mingled with Celtic, to which was given the name 
of Romanshe : and as the Franks and Normans did not, like 
the Saxons in England, expel the inhabitants, but, after their 
rictories, mingled with them ; the language of the country 
became a compound of the Teutonic dialect imported by these 
conquerors, and of the former corrupted Latin. Hence, the 
French language has always continued to have a very con- 
siderable affinity with the Latin ; and hence, a great number of 
words of Latin origin, which were in use among the Normans 
in France, were introduced into our tongue at the conquest ; to 



THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 109 

which, indeed, many have since been added, directly irom the 
Latin, in consequence of the great diffusion of Roman literature 
throughout all Europe. 

From the influx of so many streams, from the junction of so 
many dissimilar parts, it naturally follows, that the English, like 
every compounded language, must needs be somewhat irregular. 
We cannot expect from it that correspondence of parts, that 
complete analogy in structure, which may be found in those 
simpler languages, which have been formed in a manner within 
themselves, and built on one foundation. Hence, as I before 
showed, it has but small remains of conjugation or declension ; 
and its syntax is narrow, as there are few marks in the words 
themselves that can show their relation to each other, or, in the 
grammatical style, point out either their concordance, or their go- 
vernment in the sentence. Our words having been brought to us 
from several different regions, straggle, if,we may so speak, asun- 
der from each other ; and do not coalesce so naturally in the struc- 
ture of a sentence, as the words in the Greek and Roman tongues. 

But these disadvantages, if they be such, of a compound 
language, are balanced by other advantages that attend it ; par- 
ticularly, by the number and variety of words with which such 
a language is likely to be enriched. Few languages are, in fact, 
more copious than the English. In all grave subjects especially, 
historical, critical, political, and moral, no writer has the least 
reason to complain of the barrenness of our tongue. The stu- 
dious, reflecting genius of the people, has brought together great 
store of expressions, on such subjects, from every quarter. We 
are rich too in the language of poetry. Our poetical style 
differs widely from prose, not in point of numbers only, but in 
the very words themselves ; which shows what a stock and com- 
pass of words we have it in our power to select and employ, 
suited to those different occasions. Herein we are infinitely 
sixperior to the French, whose poetical language, if it were not 
distinguished by rhyme, would not be known to differ from their 
ordinary prose. 

It is chiefly, indeed, on grave subjects, and with respect to 
the stronger emotions of the mind, that our language displays 
its power of expression. We are said to have thirty words, at 
least, for denoting all the varieties of the passion of anger.* 

* Anger, wrath, passion, rage, fury, outrage, fierceness, sharpness, animo- 
sity, choler, resentment, heat, heart-burning; to fume, storm, inflame, be in- 
censed ; to vex, kindle, irritate, enrage, exasperate, provoke, fret; to be sullen, 
hasty, hot, rough, sour, peevish, &c. — Preface to Greenwood's Grammar. 



1 



110 LECTURE IX. 

But, in describing the more delicate sentiments and emotions, 
our tongue is not so fertile. It must be confessed, that the 
French language far surpasses ours, in expressing the nicer 
shades of character ; especially those varieties of maimer, 
temper, and behaviour, which are displayed in our social inter- 
course with one another. Let any one attempt to translate, into 
English, only a few pages of one of Marivaux's novels, and he 
will soon be sensible of our deficiency of expression on these 
subjects. Indeed, no language is so copious as the French 
for whatever is delicate, gay, and amusing. It is, perhaps, the 
happiest language for conversation in the known world ; but, 
on the higher subjects of composition, the English may be 
justly esteemed to excel it considerably. 

Language is generally understood to receive its predomi 
nant tincture from the national character of the people who speak 
it. We must not, indeed, expect that it will carry an exact 
and full impression of their genius and manners ; for, among 
all nations, the original stock of words which they received 
from their ancestors, remain as the foundation of their speech 
throughout many ages, while their manners undergo, perhaps, 
very great alterations. National character will, however, al- 
ways have some perceptible influence on the turn of language ; 
and the gaiety and vivacity of the French, and the gravity 
and thoughtfulness of the English, are sufficiently impressed on 
their respective tongues. 

From the genius of our language, and the character of those 
I who speak it, it may be expected to have strength and energy. 
It is, indeed, naturally prolix ; OAving to the great number of 
particles and auxiliary verbs which we are obliged constantly 
to employ ; and this prolixity must, in some degree, enfeeble 
it. We seldom can express so much by one word as was done 
by the verbs, and by the nouns, in the Greek and Roman 
languages. Our style is less compact ; our conceptions being 
spread out among more words, and split, as it were, into 
more parts, make a fainter impression when we utter them. 
Notwithstanding this defect, by our abounding in terms for 
expressing all the strong emotions of the mind, and by the 
liberty which we enjoy, in a greater degree than most nations, 
of compounding words, our language may be esteemed to possess 
considerable force of expression ; comparatively, at least, 
with the other modern tongues, though much below the ancient. 
.ff\e style of Milton alone, both in poetry and prose, is a 



THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. Ill 

sufficient proof, that the English tongue is far from being desti- 
tute of nerves and energy. 

The flexibility of a language, or its power of accommodation 
to different styles and manners, so as to be either grave and 
strong, or easy and flowing, or tender and gentle, or pompous 
and magnificent, as occasions require, or as an author's genius 
prompts, is a quality of great importance in speaking and 
writing. It seems to depend upon three things : the copious- 
ness of a language; the different arrangements of which its 
words are susceptible ; and the variety and beauty of the 
sound of those words, so as to correspond to many different 
subjects. Never did any tongue possess this quality so em- 
inently as the Greek, which every writer of genius could so 
mould, as to make the style perfectly expressive of his own 
manner and peculiar turn. It had all the three requisites, 
which I have mentioned as necessary for this purpose. It 
joined to these the graceful variety of its different dialects ; and 
thereby readily assumed every sort of character which an author 
could wish, from the most simple and most familiar, up to the 
most majestic. The Latin, though a very beautiful language, 
is inferior, in this respect, to the Greek. It has more of a fixed 
character of stateliness and gravity. It is always firm and 
masculine in the tenour of its sound, and it is supported by a 
certain senatorial dignity, of which it is difficult for a writer 
to divest it wholly, on any occasion. Among the modern 
tongues, the Italian possesses a great deal more of this flexibility 
than the French. By its copiousness, its freedom of arrang- 
ment, and the beauty and harmony of its sounds, it suits itself 
very happily to most subjects, either in prose or in poetry ; 
is capable of the august and the strong, as well as the tender ; 
and seems to be, on the whole, the most perfect of all the modern 
dialects which have arisen out of the ruins of the ancient. Our 
own language, though not equal to the Italian in flexibility, yet 
is not destitute of a considerable degree of this quality. If any 
one will consider the diversity of style which appears in some 
of our classics, — that great difference of manner, for instance, 
which is marked by the style of Lord Shaftesbury, and that of 
Dean Swift, — he will see, in our tongue, such a circle of ex- 
pression, such a power of accommodation to the different taste 
of writers, as redounds not a little to its honour 

What the English has been most taxed with, is its deficiency 
in harmony of sound. But though every native is apt to be 



112 LKCTURK IX. 

partial to the sounds of his own language, and may, therefore, 
be suspected of not being a fair judge in this point ; yet, I 
imagine, there are evident grounds on which it may be shown, 
that this charge against our tongue has been carried too far. 
The melody of our versification, its power of supporting poeti- 
cal numbers, without any assistance from rhyme, is alone a suf- 
ficient proof that our language is far from being unmusical. 
Our verse is, after the Italian, the most diversified and harmoni- 
ous of any of the modern dialects : unquestionably far beyond 
the French verse, in variety, sweetness, and melody. Mr. Sheri- 
dan has shown, in his Lectures, that we abound more in vowel 
and diphthong sounds than most languages ; and these too, so 
divided into long and short, as to afford a proper diversity in 
the quantity of our syllables. Our consonants, he observes, 
which appear so crowded to the eye on paper, often form com- 
binations not disagreeable to the ear in pronouncing ; and, in 
particular, the objection which has been made to the frequent 
recurrence of the hissing consonant s in our language, is unjust 
and ill founded. For it has not been attended to, that very com- 
monly, and in the final syllables especially, this letter loses alto- 
gether the hissing sound, and is transformed into a z, which is 
one of the sounds on which the ear rests with pleasure ; as in 
has, these, those, loves, hears, and innumerable more, where, 
though the letter s be retained in writing, it has really the power 
of z, not of the common s. 

After all, however, it must be admitted, that smoothness, or 
beauty of sound, is not one of the distinguishing properties of 
the English tongue. Though not incapable of being formed 
into melodious arrangements, yet strength and expressiveness, 
more than grace, form its character. We incline, in general, to 
a short pronunciation of our words, and have shortened the 
quantity of most of those which we borrow from the Latin, as 
orator, spectacle, theatre, liberty, and such like. Agreeable to 
this, is a remarkable peculiarity of English pronunciation, the 
throwing the accent further back, that is, nearer the beginning 
of the word, than is done by any other nation. In Greek and 
Latin no word is accented further back than the third syllable 
from the end, or what is called the antepenult. But, in English, 
we have many words accented on the fourth, some on the fifth 
syllable from the end, as memorable, conveniency, ambulator -y , 
profitableness. The general effect of this practice of hastening 
the accent, or placing it so near the beginning of the word, is to 



THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. -11.1 

give a brisk and a spirited, but at the same time a rapid and 
hurried, and not very musical, tone to the whole pronunciation 
of a people. 

The English tongue possesses, undoubtedly, this property, 
that it is the most simple, in its form and construction, of all the 
European dialects. It is free from all intricacy of cases, declen- 
sions, moods, and tenses. Its words are subject to fewer varia- 
tions from their original form than those of any other language. 
Its substantives have no distinction of gender, except what na- 
ture has made, and but one variation in case. Its adjectives 
admit of no change at all, except what expresses the degree of 
comparison. Its verbs, instead of running through all the varie- 
ties of ancient conjugation, suffer no more than four or five 
changes in termination. By the help of a few prepositions and 
auxiliary verbs, all the purposes of significancy in meaning are 
accomplished ; while the words, for the most part, preserve their 
form unchanged. The disadvantages in point of elegance, 
brevity, and force, which follow from this structure of our lan- 
guage, I have before pointed out. But, at the same time, it 
must be admitted, that such a structure contributes to facility. 
It renders the acquisition of our language less laborious, the 
arrangement of our words more plain and obvious, the rules of 
our syntax fewer and more simple. 

I agree, indeed, with Dr. Lowth (Preface to his Grammar,) 
in thinking that the simplicity and facility of our language oc- 
casion its being frequently written and spoken with less ac- 
curacy. It was necessary to study languages, which were of 
a more complex and artificial form, with greater care. The 
marks of gender and case, the varieties of conjugation and 
declension, the multiplied rules of syntax, were all to be attended 
to in speech. Hence language became more an object of art ; 
it was reduced into form ; a standard was established ; and any 
departures from the standard became conspicuous. Whereas, 
among us, language is hardly considered as an object of gram- 
matical rule. We take it for granted, that a competent skill in 
it may be acquired without any study ; and that, in a syntax so 
narrow and confined as ours, there is nothing which demands 
attention. Hence arises the habit of writing in a loose and in 
accurate manner. 

I admit that no grammatical rules have sufficient authority 
.o control the firm and established usage of language. Esta- 
olished custom, in speaking and writing, is the standard to 
Jrhich we must at last resort for determining every contro- 

I 



114 LECTURE IX. 

verted point in language and style. But it will not follow from 
this, that grammatical rules are superseded as useless. In 
every language, which has been in any degree cultivated, there 
prevails a certain structure and analogy of parts, which is 
understood to give foundation to the most reputable usage 
of speech ; and which, in all cases, when usage is loose or 
dubious, possesses considerable authority. In every language 
there are rules of syntax, which must be inviolably observed by 
all who Avould either write or speak with any propriety. For 
syntax is no other than the arrangement of words in a sentence 
which renders the meaning of each word, and the relation of all 
the words to one another, most clear and intelligible. 

All the rules of Latin syntax, it is true, cannot be applied to 
our language. Many of these rules arose from the particular 
form of their language, which occasioned verbs or prepositions 
to govern, some the genitive, some the dative, some the accu- 
sative or ablative case. But, abstracting from these pecu- 
liarities, it is to be always remembered, that the chief and 
fundamental rules of syntax are common to the English, as well 
as the Latin tongue ; and indeed, belong equally to all lan- 
guages. For, in all languages, the parts which compose speech 
are essentially the same ; substantives, adjectives, verbs, and 
connecting particles : and wherever these parts of speech are 
found, there are certain necessaiy relations among them, which 
regulate their syntax, or the place which they ought to possess 
in a sentence. Thus, in English, just as much as in Latin, the 
adjective must, by position, be made to agree with its substan- 
tive ; and the verb must agree with its nominative in person 
and number ; because, from the nature of things, a word which 
expresses either a quality or an action, must correspond as 
closely as possible with the name of that thing whose quality, 
or whose action, it expresses. Two or more substantives, joined 
I by a copulative, must always require the verbs or pronouns, to 
which they refer, to be placed in the plural number ; otherwise, 
their common relation to these verbs or pronouns is not 
pointed out. An active verb must, in every language, govern 
the accusative ; that is, clearly point out some substantive 
noun, as the object to which its action is directed. A relative 
pronoun must, in every form of speech, agree with its ante- 
cedent in gender, number, and person ; and conjunctions, or 
connecting particles, ought always to couple like cases and 
moods ; that is, ought to join together words which are of the 
same form and state with each other. T mention these as a 



TEH- ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 114 

few exemplifications cf that fundamental regard to syntax, 
which, even in such a language as ours, is absolutely requisite 
for writing or speaking with any propriety. 

Whatever the advantages or defects of the English language 
be, as it is our own language, it deserves a high degree of our 
study and attention, both with regard to the choice of words 
which we employ, and with regard to the syntax, or the 
arrangement of these words in a sentence. We know how 
much the Greeks and the Romans, in their most polished and 
flourishing times, cultivated their own tongues. We know 
how much study both the French and the Italians have 
bestowed upon theirs. Whatever knowledge may be acquired 
by the study of other languages, it can never be communicated 
with advantage, unless by such as can write and speak their 
own language well. Let the matter of an author be ever so 
good and useful, his compositions will always suffer in the 
public esteem, if his expression be deficient in purity and pro- 
priety. At the same time, the attainment of a correct and 
elegant style is an object which demands application and 
labour. If any imagine they can catch it merely by the ear, 
or acquire it by a slight perusal of some of our good authors, 
they will find themselves much disappointed. The many errors, 
even in point of grammar, the many offences against purity of 
language, which are committed by writers who are far from 
being contemptible, demonstrate that a careful study of the 
language is previously requisite, in all who aim at writing it 
properly.* 



LECTURE X. 

STYLE, PERSPICUITY, AND PRECISION. 

Having finished the subject of language, I now enter on 
the consideration of style, and the rules that relate to it. 

It is not easy to give a precise idea of what is meant by 
style. The best definition I can give of it, is the peculiar man- 
ner in which a man expresses his conceptions, by means of lan- 
guage. It is different from mere language or words. The 

• On this subject, the reader ought to peruse Dr. Lowth's Short Introduc- 
tion to the English Grammar, with Critical Notes, which is the grammatical per- 
formance of highest authority that has appeared in our time, and in which he 
will see what I have said, concerning the inaccuracies in language of some of 
our best writers, fully verified. In Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric, ha 

I 2 



110 LECTURE X. 

words which an author employs may be proper and faultless . 
and his style may, nevertheless, have great faults ; it may be 
dry, or stiff, or feeble, or affected. Style has always some 
reference to an author's manner of thinking. It is a picture of 
the ideas which rise in his mind, and of the manner in which 
they rise there ; and, hence, when we are examining an author's 
composition, it is, in many cases, extremely difficult to separate 
the style from the sentiment. No wonder these two should be 
so intimately connected, as style is nothing else, than that sort 
of expression which our thoughts most readily assume. Hence, 
different countries have been noted for peculiarities of style, 
suited to their different temper and genius. The Eastern na- 
tions animated their style with the most strong and hyperbolical 
figures. The Athenians, a polished and acute people, formed 
a style accurate, clear, and neat. The Asiatics, gay and loose 
in their manners, affected a style florid and diffuse. The like 
sort of characteristical differences are commonly remarked in 
the style of the French, the English, and the Spaniards. In 
giving the general characters of style, it is usual to talk of a 
nervous, a feeble, or a spirited style ; which are plainly the 
characters of a writer's manner of thinking, as well as of ex- 
pressing himself: so difficult it is to separate these two things 
from one another. Of the general characters of style, I am 
afterwards to discourse ; but it will be necessary to begin with 
examining the more simple qualities of it ; from the assemblage 
of which, its more complex denominations, in a great measure, 
result. 

All the qualities of a good style may be ranged under two 
heads — perspicuity and ornament. For all that can possibly 
be required of language, is, to convey our ideas clearly to the 
minds of others, and, at the same time, in such a dress, as by 
pleasing and interesting them, shall most effectually strengthen 
the impressions which we seek to make. When both these ends 
are answered, we certainly accomplish every purpose for which 
we use writing and discourse. 

Perspicuity, it will be readily admitted, is the fundamental 
quality of style ;* a quality so essential in every kind of writing, 

will likewise find many acute and ingenious observations, both on the English 
.anguage, and on style in general. And Dr. Priestly's Rudiments of English 
Grammar will also be useful, by pointing out several of the errors into which 
writers are apt to fall. 

* " Nobis prima sit virtus perspicuitas, propria verba, rectus ordo, non in 
longum dilata conclusio; nihil neque desit, neque superfluat."— Quintil. lib. 
viii. 2, 22. 



PERSPICUITY. 117 

that, for the want of it, nothing can atone. Without this, the 
richest ornaments of style only glimmer through the dark ; and 
puzzle instead of pleasing the reader. This, therefore, must bo 
our first object, to make our meaning clearly and fully under- 
stood, and understood without the least difficulty. " Oratio," 
says Quintilian, " debet negligenter quoque audientibus esse 
aperta : ut in animum audientis, sicut sol in oculos, etiamsi in 
eum non intendatur, incurrat. Quare, non solum ut intelligere 
possit, sed ne omnino possit non intelligere curandum."* If 
we are obliged to follow a writer with much care, to pause, and 
to read over his sentences a second time, in order to compre- 
hend them fully, he will never please us long. Mankind are too 
indolent to relish so much labour. They may pretend to admire 
the author's depth, after they have discovered his meaning ; 
but they will seldom be inclined to take up his work a second 
time. 

Authors sometimes plead the difficulty of their subject, as an 
excuse for the want of perspicuity. But the excuse can rarely, 
if ever, be admitted. For whatever a man conceives clearly, 
that it is in his power, if he will be at the trouble, to put into 
distinct propositions, or to express clearly to others : and upon 
no subject ought any man to write, where he cannot think 
clearly. His ideas, indeed, may, very excusably, be on some 
subjects incomplete or inadequate ; but still, as far as they go, 
they ought to be clear ; and wherever this is the case, perspicuity 
in expressing them is always attainable. The obscurity which S 
reigns so much among many metaphysical writers, is for the 
most part, owing to the indistinctness of their own conceptions. 
They see the object but in a confused light ; and, of course, can 
never exhibit it in a clear one to others. 

Perspicuity in writing, is not to be considered as merely a 
sort of negative virtue, or freedom from defect. It has higher 
merit ; it is a degree of positive beauty. We are pleased with 
an author, we consider him as deserving praise, who frees us 
from all fatigue of searching for his meaning ; who carries us 
through his subject without any embarrassment or confusion ; 
whose style flows always like a limpid stream, where we see to 
the very bottom. 

The study of perspicuity requires attention, first, to single 

* " Discourse ought always to be obvious, even to the most careless and neg- 
ligent hearer ; so that the sense shall strike his mind, as the light of the sun does 
our eyes, though they are not directed upwards to it. We must study, not only 
that every hearer may understand us, but that it shall be impossible for him not 
to understand us." 



118 LECTURE X, 

words and phrases, and then to the construction of sentences. 
I begin with treating of the first, and shall confine myself to it 
in this lecture. 

Perspicuity, considered with respect to words and phrases, 
requires these three qualities in them — purity, propriety, and 
precision. 

Purity and propriety of language, are often used indiscri- 
minately for each other ; and, indeed, they are very nearly allied. 
A distinction, however, obtains between them. Purity, is the 
use of such words, and such constructions, as belong to the 
idiom of the language which we speak ; in opposition to words 
and phrases that are imported from other languages, or that are 
obsolete, 01 new-coined, or used without proper authority. 
Propriety, is the selection of such words in the language, as the 
best and most established usage has appropriated to those ideas 
which we intend to express by them. It implies the correct and 
happy application of them, according to that usage, in oj>po- 
sition to vulgarisms, or low expressions ; and to words and 
phrases, which would be less significant of the ideas that we 
mean to convey. Style may be pure, that is, it may all be 
strictly English, without Scotticisms or Gallicisms, or ungram- 
matical irregular expressions of any kind, and may, nevertheless, 
be deficient in propriety. The words may be ill chosen ; not 
adapted to the subject, nor fully expressive of the author's sense. 
He has taken all his words and phrases from the general mass 
of English language ; but he has made his selection among these 
words unhappily. Whereas, style cannot be proper without 
being also pure ; and where both purity and propriety meet, 
besides making style perspicuous, they also render it graceful. 
There is no standard, either of purity or of propriety, but the 
practice of the best writers and speakers in the country. 

When I mentioned obsolete or new-coined words as incon- 
gruous with purity of style, it will be easily understood that 
some exceptions are to be made. On certain occasions, they 
may have grace. Poetry admits of greater latitude than prose, 
with respect to coining, or, at least, new-compounding words ; 
yet, even here, this liberty should be used with a sparing hand. 
In prose, such innovations are more hazardous, and have a 
worse effect. They are apt to give style an affected and con- 
ceited air ; and should never be ventured upon, except by such 
whose established reputation gives them some degree of dicta- 
torial power over language. 

The introduction of foreign and learned words, unless where 



PRECISION IN STYLE. no 

necessity requires them, should always be avoided. Barren lan- 
guages may need such assistances ; but ours is not one of these. 
Dean Swift, one of our most correct writers, valued liimsel/ 
much on using no words but such as were of native growth 
and his language may, indeed, be considered as a standard of 
the strictest purity and propriety, in the choice of words. At pre 
sent, we seem to be departing from this standard. A multitude 
of Latin words have of late been poured in upon us. On some 
occasions, they give an appearance of elevation and dignity to 
style. But often also, they render it stiff and forced : and, in 
general, a plain native style, as it is more intelligible to all 
readers, so, by a proper management of words, it may be mad© 
equally strong and expressive with this latinized English. 

Let us now consider the import of precision in language, 
which, as it is the highest part of the quality denoted by per- 
spicuity, merits a full explication ; and the more, because distinct 
ideas are, perhaps, not commonly formed about it. 

The exact import of precision may be drawn from the 
etymology of the word. It comes from pracidere to cut off. 
It imports retrenching all superfluities, and pruning the ex- 
pression so as to exhibit neither more nor less than an exact 
copy of his idea who uses it. I observed before, that it is 
often difficult to separate the qualities of style from the qualities 
of thought ; and it is found so in this instance ; for, in order to 
write with precision, though this be properly a quality of style, 
one must possess a very considerable degree of distinctness and 
accuracy in his manner of thinking. 

The words which a man uses to express his ideas may be 
faulty in three respects : They may either not express that idea 
which the author intends, but some other which only resembles, 
or is akin to it ; or they may express foal iSsz, but not quite 
fully and completely; or, they may express it together with 
something more than he intends. Precision stands opposed 
to all these three faults : but chiefly to the last. In an author's 
writing with propriety, his being free from the two former 
faults seems implied. The words which he uses are proper ; 
that is, they express that idea which he intends, and they 
express it fully; but to be precise, signifies that they express 
that idea, and no more. There is nothing in his words which 
introduces any foreign idea, any superfluous unseasonable 
accessory, so as to mix it confusedly Avith the principal object, 
and thereby to render our conception of that object loose and 
indistinct. This requires a writer to have, himself, a very clear 



120 LECTURE X. 

apprehension of the object he means to present to us ; to Imv 
laid fast hold of it in his mind ; and never to waver in any on 
< view he takes of it : a perfection to which, indeed few writers 
attain. 

The use and importance of precision may be deduced from 
the nature of the human mind. It never can view, clearly anc 1 
distinctly, above one object at a time. If it must look at tw3 
or three together, especially objects among which there is 
resemblance or connexion, it finds itself confused and embar- 
rassed. It cannot clearly perceive in what they agree, and in 
what they differ. Thus, were any object, suppose some animal, 
to be presented to me, of whose structure I wanted to form a 
distinct notion, I would desire all its trappings to be taken off, 
I would require it to be brought before me by itself, and to stand 
alone, that there might be nothing to distract my attention. The 
same is the case with words. If, when you would inform me 
of your meaning, you also tell me more than what conveys it ; 
if you join foreign circumstances to the principal object ; if, by 
unnecessarily varying the expression, you shift the point of view, 
and make me see sometimes the object itself, and sometimes 
another thing that is connected with it ; you thereby oblige me 
to look on several objects at once, and I lose sight of the prin- 
cipal. You load the animal you are showing me with so many 
trappings and collars, and bring so many of the same species 
before me, somewhat resembling, and yet somewhat differing, 
that I see none of them clearly. 

This forms what is called a loose style ; and is the proper 
opposite to precision. It generally arises from using a super- 
fluity of words. Feeble writers employ a multitude of words 
To^make^tkeins^ves understo od, as _tbey4femk, more distinctly ; 
but they only coTffoundthe reader. They are sensible of not 
having caught the precise expression, to convey what they would 
signify ; they do not, indeed, conceive their own meaning very 
precisely themselves : and, therefore, help it out as they can, by 
this and the other word, which may, as they suppose, supply the 
defect, and bring you somewhat nearer to their idea : they are 
always going about it, and about it, but never just hit the thing. 
The image,~"as they set it before you, is always seen double ; and 
no double image is distinct. When an author tells me of his 
hero's courage in the day of battle, the expression is precise, and 
I understand it fully. But if, from the desire of multiplying 
words, he will needs praise his courage and fortitude ; at the mo- 
ment he joins these words together, my idea begins to waver 






PRECISION IN STYLE. 121 

He means to express one quality more strongly ; but he is, in 
truth, expressing two. Courage resists danger ; fortitude sup- 
ports pain. The occasion of exerting each of these qualities is 
different ; and being led to think of both together, when only 
one of them should be in my view, my view is rendered un- 
steady, and my conception of the objects indistinct. 

From what I have said, it appears that an author may, in a 
qualified sense, be perspicuous, while yet he is far from being 
precise. He uses proper words, and proper arrangement ; he 
gives you the idea as clear as he conceives it himself; and so 
far he is perspicuous : but the ideas are not very clear in his 
own mind ; they are loose and general ; and, therefore, cannot be 
expressed with precision. All subjects do not equally require 
precision. It is sufficient, on many occasions, that we have a 
general view of the meaning. The subject, perhaps, is of the 
known and familiar kind ; and we are in no hazard of mistaking 
the sense of the author, though every word which he uses be not 
precise and exact. 

Few authors, for instance, in the English language, are more 
clear and perspicuous, on the whole, than Archbishop Tillotson, 
and Sir William Temple ; yet neither of them are remarkable 
for precision. They are loose and diffuse ; and accustomed to 
express their meaning by several words, which shew you fully 
whereabouts it lies, rather than to single out those expressions, 
which would convey clearly the idea they have in view, and no 
i more. Neither, indeed, is precision the prevailing character of 
lVIr. Addison's style; although he is not so deficient in this re- 
jtpect as the other two authors. 

Lord Shaftesbury's faults, in point of precision, are much 
/greater than Mr. Addison's ; and the more unpardonable, 
because he is a professed philosophical writer ; who, as such, 
ought above all things to have studied precision. His style has 
bc;h great beauties and great faults ; and, on the whole, is by no 
means a safe model for imitation. Lord Shaftesbury was well 
acquainted with the power of words ; those which he employs 
are generally proper and well sounding ; he has great variety of 
them ; and his arrangement, as shall be afterwards shown, is 
commonly beautiful. His defect, in precision, is not owing so 
much to indistinct or confused ideas, as to perpetual affectation. 
He is fond, to excess, of the pomp and parade of language ; he 
is never satisfied with expressing any thing clearly and simply ; 
he must always give it the dress of state and majesty. Hence 
perpetual circumlocutions, and many words and phrases em- 



122 LECTURE X. 

ployed to describe somewhat that would have been described 
much better by one of them. If he has occasion to mention any 
person or autlwr, he very rarely mentions him by his proper 
name. In the treatise entitled, Advice to an Author, he descants 
for two or three pages together upon Aristotle, without once 
naming him in any other way, than the master critic, the 
mighty genius and judge of art, the prince of critics, the grand 
master of art, and consummate philologist. In the same way, 
the grand poetic sire, the philosophical patriarch, and his disci- 
ple of noble birth and lofty genius, are the only names by which 
he condescends to distinguish Homer, Socrates, and Plato, in 
another passage of the same treatise. This method of distin- 
guishing persons is extremely affected ; but it is not so contrary 
to precision, as the frequent circumlocutions he employs for all 
moral ideas ; attentive, on every occasion, more to the pomp 
of language, than to the clearness which he ought to have studied 
as a philosopher. The moral sense, for instance, after he had 
once defined it, was a clear term ; but how vague becomes the 
idea, when, in the next page, he calls it, « That natural affection, 
and anticipating fancy, which makes the sense of right and 
wrong !" Self-examination, or reflection on our own conduct, is 
an idea conceived with ease ; but when it is wrought into all 
the forms of " A man's dividing himself into two parties, becom- 
ing a self-dialogist, entering into partnership with himself, 
forming the dual number practically- within himself ;» we hardly 
know Yvlfaf to make of it. On some occasion he so adorrs, pt 
rather loads with words, the plainest and simplest propositions, 
as, if not to obscure, at least to enfeeble them. 

In the following paragraph, for example, of the inquiry 
concerning virtue, he means to show, that by every ill action 
we hurt our mind, as much as one who should swallow poison, 
or give himself a wound, would hurt his body. Observe what a 
redundancy of words he pours forth : " Now, if the fabric of 
the mind or temper appeared to us, such as it really is ; if we 
saw it impossible to remove hence any one good or orderly 
affection, or to introduce any ill or disorderly one, without 
drawing on, in some degree, that dissolute state which, at 
its height, is confessed to be so miserable ; it would then, 
undoubtedly, be confessed, jthat since no ill, immoral, or unjust 
action can be committe without either a new inroad and 
breach on the temper an j passions, or a further advancing of 
that execution already done ; whoever did ill, or acted in pre- 
judice to his integrity, good-nature, or worth, would, of 






PRECISION IN STYLL. 123 

necessity, act with greater cruelty towards himself, than he who 
scrupled not to swallow what was poisonous, or who, with his 
own hands, should voluntarily mangle or wound his outward 
form or constitution, natural limbs or body."* Here, to 
commit a bad action, is, first, " To remove a good and orderly 
affection, and to introduce an ill or disorderly one ;" next, it is, 
" To commit an action that is ill, immoral, and unjust ;" and in 
the next line, it is, " To do ill, or to act in prejudice of integ- 
rity, good-nature, and worth ;" nay, so very simple a thing as a 
man wounding himself, is, " To mangle, or wound, his out- 
ward form or constitution, his natural limbs or body." Such 
superfluity of words is disgustful to every reader of correct 
taste ; and serves no purpose but to embarrass and perplex the 
sense. This sort of style is elegantly described by Quintilian, 
" Est in quibusdam turba inanium verborum, qui dum com- 
munem loquendi morem reformidant, ducti specie nitoris, cir- 
cumeunt omnia copiosa loquacitate quas dicere volunt."-j- 
Lib. vii. cap. 2. 

The great source of a loose style, in opposition to precision, 
is the injudicious use of those words termed synonymous. 
They are called synonymous because they agree in expressing 
one principal idea ; but for the most part, if not always, they 
express it with some diversity in the circumstances. They are 
varied by some accessory idea which every word introduces, 
and which forms the distinction between them. Hardly in any 
lauguage are there twu words that convey precisely the s^me 
idea ; a person thoroughly conversant in the propriety of the 
language will always be able to observe something that dis- 
tinguishes them. As they are like different shades of the same 
colour, an accurate writer can employ them to great advantage, 
by using them so as to heighten and to finish the picture 
which he gives us. He supplies by one, what was wanting in 
the other, to the force, or to the lustre of the image which he 
means to exhibit. But in order to this end, he must be ex- 
tremely attentive to the choice which he makes of them. For 
the bulk of writers are very apt to confound them with each 
other ; and to employ them carelessly, merely for the sake of 
filling up a period, or of rounding and diversifying the language, 

* Characterist. Vol. ii. p. 85. 

t " A crowd of unmeaning words is brought together by some authors, who, 
afraid of expressing themselves after a common and ordinary manner, and allured 
by an appearance of splendour, surround every thing which they mean to say 
with a certain copious loquacity.'' 



as if their signification were exactly the same, while, in truth, iJ 
is not. Hence a certain mist, and indistinctness, is unwarily 
thrown over style. 

In the Latin language, there are no two words we should 
more readily take to be synonymous, than amare and di'tigere. 
Cicero, however, has shown us, that there is a very clear dis- 
tinction betwixt them. " Quid ergo," says he, in one of his 
epistles, " tibi commendem eum quern tu ipse diligis ? Sed 
tamen ut scires eum non a me diligi solum, verum etiam amari, 
ob earn rem tibi haec scribo."* In the same manner tutus and 
securus, are words which we should readily confound ; yet their 
meaning is different. Tutus signifies out of danger ; securus, 
free from the dread of it. Seneca has elegantly marked this 
distinction ; * Tuta scelera esse possunt, secura non possunt."-]- 
In our own language, very many instances might be given of a 
difference in meaning among words reputed synonymous ; and, 
as the subject is of importance, I shall now point out some of 
these. The instances which I am to give, may themselves be of 
use ; and they will serve to show the necessity of attending, 
with care and strictness, to the exact import of words, if ever we 
would write with propriety or precision. 

Austerity ; severity ; rigour. Austerity, relates to the manner 
of living ; severity, of thinking ; rigour, of punishing. To 
austerity, is opposed effeminacy ; to severity, relaxation ; to 
rigour, clemency. J^ hermit, is austere in his life ; a casuist, 
se X^4^s^5piication of religioV Of laW : ajudge, rigorous in 
^ "his sentences. 

Custom ; habit. Custom, respects the action ; habit, the 
actor. By custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the same 
act ; by habit, the effect which that repetition produces on the 
mind or body. By the custom of walking often in the streets, 
one acquires a habit of idleness. 

Surprised ; astonished ; amazed ; confounded. I am surprised, 
with what is new or unexpected ; I am astonished, at what is 
vast or great ; I am amazed, with what is incomprehensible ; I 
am confounded, by what is shocking or terrible. 

Desist ; renounce ; quit ; leave off. Each of these words im- 
plies some pursuit or object relinquished; but from different 
motives. We desist, from the difficulty of accomplishing ; we 
renounce, on account of the disagreeableness of the object, or 
pursuit; we quit, for the sake of some other thing which 
interests us more ; and we leave off, because we are weary of the 



♦ Ad Famil. 1. xiii. Ep. 47. 



t Ep. 97. 



PRECISION IN STYLE. 125 

design. A politician desists from his designs, when he finds 
they are impracticable ; he renounces the court, because he has 
been affronted by it ; he quits ambition, for study or retirement ; 
and leaves off his attendance on the great, as he becomes old 
and weary of it. 

Pride ; vanity. Pride, makes us esteem ourselves ; vanity, 
makes us desire the esteem of others. It is just to say, as 
Dean Swift has done, that a man is too proud to be vain. 

Haughtiness ; disdain. Haughtiness, is founded on the high 
opinion we entertain of ourselves ; disdain, on the low opinion 
we have of others. 

To distinguish ; to separate. We distinguish, what we want 
not to confound with another thing ; we separate, what we want 
to remove from it. Objects are distinguished from one another, 
by their qualities ; they are separated, by the distance of time or 
place. 

2b weary; to fatigue. The continuance of the same thing 
wearies us ; labour fatigues us. I am weary with standing ; I 
am fatigued with walking. A suitor wearies us by his perse- 
verance ; fatigues us by his importunity. 

To abhor ; to detest. To abhor, imports, simply, strong dis- 
like ; to detest, imports also strong disapprobation. One abhors 
being in debt ; he detests treachery. 

To invent ; to discover. We invent things that are new ; we 
discover what was before hidden. Galileo invented the tele- 
scope ; Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood. 

Only ; alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the 
same kind; alone, imports being accompanied by no other. An 
only child, is one who has neither brother nor sister ; a child 
alone, is one who is left by itself. There is a difference, there- 
fore, in precise language, betwixt these two phrases, u Virtue 
only makes us happy ;" and, " Virtue alone makes us happy." 
" Virtue only makes us happy," imports, that nothing else can 
do it. " Virtue alone makes us happy," imports, that virtue, 
by itself, or unaccompanied with other advantages, is sufficient 
to do it 

Entire ; complete. A thing is entire, by wanting none of its 
parts ; complete, by wanting none of the appendages that belong 
to it. A man may have an entire house to himself; and yet not 
have one complete apartment. 

Tranquillity ; peace ; calm. Tranquillity, respects a situation 
free from trouble, considered in itself ; peace, the same situation 
with respect to any causes that might interrupt it ; calm, with 



120 LECTURE X. 

regard to a disturbed situation going before, or following it. A 
good man enjoys tranquillity, in himself; peace, with others 
and calm, after the storm. 

A difficulty ; an obstacle. A difficulty, embarrasses ; an ob- 
stacle, stops us. We remove the one ; we surmount the other. 
Generally, the first expresses somewhat arising from the nature 
and circumstances of the affair ; the second, somewhat arising 
from a foreign cause. Philip found difficulty in managing the 
Athenians from the nature of their dispositions ; but the elo- 
quence of Demosthenes was the greatest obstacle to his de- 
signs. 

Wisdom ; -prudence. Wisdom, leads us to speak and act what 
is most proper ; prudence, prevents our speaking or acting im- 
properly. A wise man employs the most proper means for suc- 
cess ; a prudent man, the safest means for not being brought 
into danger. 

Enough; sufficient. Enough, relates to the quantity which 
one wishes to have of any thing ; sufficient, relates to the use 
that is to be made of it. Hence, enough, generally imports a 
greater quantity than sufficient does. The covetous man never 
has enough, although he has what is sufficient for nature. 

To avoio ; to acknowledge ; to confess. Each of these words 
imports the affirmation of a fact, but in very different circum- 
stances. To avow, supposes the person to glory in it ; to ac- 
knowledge, supposes a small degree of faultiness, which the ac- 
knowledgment compensates ; to confess, supposes a higher de- 
gree of crime. A patriot avows his opposition to a bad minister, 
and is applauded ; a gentleman acknowledges his mistake, and 
is forgiven ; a prisoner confesses the crime he is accused of, and 
is punished. 

To remark ; to observe. We remark, in the way of attention, 
in order to remember ; we observe, in the way of examination, 
in order to judge. A traveller remarks the most striking objects 
he sees ; a general observes all the motions of his enemy 

Equivocal; ambiguous. An equivocal expression is, one 
which has one sense open, and designed to be understood; 
another sense concealed, and understood only by the person who 
uses it. An ambiguous expression is, one which has apparently 
two senses, and leaves us at a loss which of them to give it 
An equivocal expression is used with an intention to deceive ; an 
ambiguous one, when it is used with design, is, with an intention 
not to give full information. An honest man will never employ 
an equivocal expression ; a confused man may often utter am- 






PRECISION IN STYLE. 121 

biguous ones, without any design. I shall give only one instance 
more. 

With ; by. Both these particles express the connection be 
tween some instrument, or means of effecting an end, and the 
agent who employs it ; but with, expresses a more close and im 
mediate connection ; by, a more remote one. We kill a man 
with a sword ; he dies by violence. The criminal is bound with 
ropes by the executioner. The proper distinction in the use of 
hese particles is elegantly marked in a passage of Dr. Robert- 
son's History of Scotland. AVhen one of the old Scottish kings 
was making an enquiry into the tenure by which his nobles held 
their lands, they started up, and drew their swords : " By these," 
said they, " we acquired our lands, and with these, we will de- 
fend them. " By these we acquired our lands," signifies the 
more remote means of acquisition by force and martial deed j 
and, " with these we will defend them ;" signifies the immediate 
direct instrument, the sword, which they would employ in their 
defence. 

These are instances of words in our language, which, by care- 
less writers, are apt to be employed as perfectly synonymous, 
and yet are not so. Their significations approach, but are not 
precisely the same. The more the distinction in the meaning of 
such words is weighed, and attended to, the more clearly and 
forcibly shall we speak or write.* 

From all that has been said on this head, it will now appear, 
that, in order to write or speak with precision, two things are 
especially requisite ; one, that an author's own ideas be clear 
and distinct; and the other, that he have an exact and full 
comprehension of the force of those words which he employs. 
Natural genius is here required; labour and attention still 
more. Dean Swift is one of the Authors, in our language, most 
distinguished for precision of style. In his writings, we sel- 
dom or never find any vague expressions, and synonymous 

* In French, there is a very useful treatise on the subject, the Abbe" Girard's 
Synonymes Francoises, in which he has made a large collection of such apparent 
synonymes in the language, and shown, with much accuracy, the difference in 
their signification. It is to be wished, that some such work were undertaken 
in our tongue, and executed with equal taste and judgment. Nothing would 
contribute more to precise and elegant writing. In the meantime, this French 
treatise may be perused with considerable profit. It will accustom persons to 
weigh, with attention, the force of words; and will suggest several distinctions 
betwixt synonymous terms in our own language, analogous to those which he has 
pointed out in the French ; and, accordingly, several of the instances above jjiven 
were suggested by the worn of this author. 



128 LECTURE XI. 

words carelessly thrown together. His meaning is always clear, 
and strongly marked. 

I had occasion to observe before, that though all subjects 
of writing or discourse demand perspicuity, yet all do not re- 
quire the same degree of that exact precision, which I have 
endeavoured to explain. It is, indeed, in every sort of writing, 
a great beauty to have, at least, some measure of precision, 
in distinction from that loose profusion of words which imprints 
no clear idea on the reader's mind. But we must, at the same 
time, be on our guard, lest too great a study of precision, 
especially in subjects where it is not strictly requisite, betray 
us into a dry and barren style ; lest, from the desire of pruning 
too closely, we retrench all copiousness and ornament. Some 
degree of this failing may, perhaps, be remarked in Dean Swift's 
serious works. Attentive only to exhibit his ideas clear and 
exact, resting wholly on his sense and distinctness, he appears 
to reject, disdainfully, all embellishment; which, on some occa- 
sions, may be thought to render his manner somewhat hard and 
dry. To unite copiousness and precision, to be flowing and 
graceful, and at the same time correct and exact in the choice 
of every word, is, no doubt, one of the highest and most diffi- 
cult attainments in writing. Some kinds of composition may 
require more of copiousness and ornament; others, more of 
precision and accuracy ; nay, in the same composition, the 
different parts of it may demand a proper variation of manner. 
But we must study never to sacrifice, totally, any one of 
these qualities to the other ; and, by a proper management, 
both of them may be made fully consistent, if our own ideas be 
precise, and our knowledge and stock of words be, at the same 
time, extensive. 



LECTURE XL 

STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 



s 



HAVING begun to treat of style, in the last lecture I con- 
sidered its fundamental quality, perspicuity. What I have said 
of this, relates chiefly to the choice of words. From words I 
proceed to sentences ; and as, in all writing and discourse, the 
proper composition and structure of sentences is of the highest 
importance, I shall treat of this fully. Though perspicuity be 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 129 

the general head under which I, at present, consider language. 
I shall not confine myself to this quality alone, in sentences, but 
shall inquire also, what is requisite for their grace and beauty : 
that I may bring together, under one view, all that seems neces- 
sary to be attended to in the construction and arrangement of 
words in a sentence. 

It is not easy to give an exact definition of a sentence, or 
period, further, than as it always implies some one complete 
proposition or enunciation of thought. Aristotle's definition 
is, in the main, a good one : Ai^tg I^ovo-a apxrjv koI teXevttiv kclQ' 
avrrtv, kclI filytBog evaiivoirrov : u A form of speech which hath a 
beginning and an end within itself, and is of such a length as to 
be easily comprehended at once." This, however, admits of 
great latitude : for a sentence, or period, consists always of 
component parts, which are called its members : and as these 
members may be either few or many, and may be connected in 
several different ways, the same thought, or mental proposition, 
may often be either brought into one sentence, or split into two 
or three, without the material breach of any rule. 

The first variety that occurs in the consideration of sentences, 
is the distinction of long and short ones. The precise length of 
sentences, as to the number of words, or the number of members, 
which may enter into them, cannot be ascertained by any definite 
measure. At the same time, it is obvious, there may be an ex- 
treme on either side. Sentences immoderately long, and con- 
sisting of too many members, always transgress some one or 
other of the rules which I shall mention soon, as necessary to be 
observed in every good sentence. In discourses that are to be 
spoken, regard must be had to the easiness of pronunciation, 
which is not consistent with too long periods. In compositions 
where pronunciation has no place, still, however by using long 
periods too frequently, an author overloads the reader's ear, and 
fatigues his attention. For long periods require, evidently, more 
attention than short ones, in order to perceive clearly the con- 
nection of the several parts, and to take in the whole at one 
view. At the same time, there may be an excess in too many 
short sentences also ; by which the sense is split and broken, 
the connection of thought weakened, and the memory burdened, 
by presenting to it a long succession of minute objects. 

With regard to the length and construction of sentences, the 
French critics make a very just distinction of style, into style 
ptriodique, and style coupe. The style ptriodique is, where the 
sentences are composed of several members linked together, and 

K 






130 LECTURE XL 

hanging upon one another, so that the sense of the whole is not 
brought out till the close. This is the most pompous, musical, 
and oratorical manner of composing ; as in the following sen- 
tence of Sir William Temple : " If you look about you, and con- 
sider the lives of others as well as your own ; if you think how 
few are born with honour, and how many die without name or 
children ; how little beauty we see, and how few friends we hear 
of; how many diseases, and how much poverty there is in the 
world ; you will fall down upon your knees, and, instead of re- 
pining at one affliction, will admire so many blessings which 
you have received from the hand of God." (Letter to Lady 
Essex.) Cicero abounds with sentences constructed after this 
manner. 

The style coupe is, where the sense is formed into short inde- 
pendent propositions, each complete within itself; as in the fol- 
lowing of Mr. Pope : " I confess, it was want of consideration 
that made me an author. I writ, because it amused me. I cor- 
rected, because it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write. 
I published, because, I was told, I might please such as it was a 
credit to please." (Preface to his Works.) This is very much 
the French method of writing, and always suits gay and easy 
subjects. The style pcriodique, gives an air of gravity and dig- 
nity to composition. The style coupe, is more lively and striking. 
According to the nature of the composition, therefore, and the 
general character it ought to bear, the one or other may be pre- 
dominant. But, in almost every kind of composition, the great 
rule is to intermix them. For the ear tires of either of them 
when too long continued : whereas, by a proper mixture of long 
and short periods, the ear is gratified, and a certain sprightli- 
ness is joined with majesty in our style. " Non semper," says 
Cicero, (describing very expressively these two different kinds 
of styles of which I have been speaking,) " non semper utendum 
est perpetuitate, et quasi conversione verborum ; sed saepe car- 
penda membris minutioribus oratio est."* 

This variety is of so great consequence, that it must be 
studied, not only in the succession of long and short sentences, 
but in the structure of our sentences also. A train of sentences, 
constructed in the same manner, and with the same number of 
members, whether long or short, should never be allowed to 
succeed one another. However musical each of them may be, 

• " It is not proper always to employ a continued train, and a sort of regular 
compass of phrases ; but style ougbt to be often broken down into smaller 
members." 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 131 

it has a better effect to introduce even a discord, than to cloy 
the ear with the repetition of similar sounds ; for nothing is so 
tiresome as perpetual uniformity. In this article, of the con- 
struction and distribution of his sentences, Lord Shaftesbury 
has shown great art. In the last lecture I observed, that he is 
often guilty of sacrificing precision of style to pomp of expres- 
sion ; and that there runs through his whole manner a stiffness 
and affectation, which render him very unfit to be considered as 
a general model. But, as his ear was fine, and as he was ex- 
tremely attentive to every thing that is elegant, he has studied 
the proper intermixture of long and short sentences, with variety 
and harmony in their structure, more than any other English 
author; and for this part of composition lie deserves atten- 
tion. 

From these general observations let us now descend to a 
more particular consideration of the qualities that are required 
to make a sentence perfect. So much depends upon the proper 
construction of sentences, that, in every sort of composition, 
we cannot be too strict in our attentions to it. For, be the 
subject what it will, if the sentences be constructed in a clumsy, 
perplexed, or feeble manner, it is impossible that a work, com- 
posed of such sentences, can be read with pleasure, or even with 
profit. Whereas, by giving attention to the rules which relate 
to this part of style, we acquire the habit of expressing ourselves 
with perspicuity and elegance ; and if a disorder chance to arise 
in some of our sentences, we immediately see where it lies, and 
are able to rectify it.* 

The properties most essential to a perfect sentence, seem to 
me, the four following : 1. Clearness and precision. 2. Unity. 
3. Strength. 4. Harmony. Each of these I shall illustrate 
separately, and at some length. 

The first is clearness and precision. The least failure here, 
the least degree of ambiguity, which leaves the mind in any sort 
of suspense as to the meaning, ought to be avoided with the 
greatest care ; nor is it so easy a matter to keep always clear of 

* On the structure of sentences, the ancients appear to have bestowed a great 
deal of attention and care. The treatise of Demetrius Phalereus, mpi 'E&.uiiv/a?, 
abounds with observations upon the choice and collocation of words, carried to 
such a degree of nicety as would frequently seem to ns minute. The treatise of 
Dionyeius of Halicarnassus, ?r»pi o-uvQeVsioj ow/xaTai», is more masterly; but is 
chiefly confined to the musical structure of periods ; a subject for which the 
Greek language afforded much more assistance to their writers than our tougue 
admits. On the arrangement of words, in English sentences, the eighteenth 
chapter of Loi d Kaimes's Elements of Ci iticism ought to be consulted ; and also 
the second volume of Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric. 

K 2 



132 LECTURE XI. 

this, as one might at first imagine. Ambiguity arises from two 
causes ; either from a wrong choice of words, or a wrong col- 
location of them. Of the choice of words, as far as regards 
perspicuity, I treated fully in the last lecture. Of the collocation 
of them, I am now to treat. The first thing to be studied here, 
is to observe exactly the rules of grammar, as far as these can 
guide us. But, as the grammar of our language is not extensive, 
there may often be an ambiguous collocation of words, where 
there is no transgression of any grammatical rule. The relations 
which the words, or members of a period, bear to one another, 
cannot be pointed out in English, as in the Greek or Latin, by 
means of termination ; it is ascertained only by the position in 
which they stand. Hence a capital rule in the arrangement of 
sentences is, that the words or members most nearly related 
should be placed in the sentence as near to each other as pos- 
sible ; so as to make their mutual relation clearly appear. This 
is a rule not always observed, even by good writers, as strictly 
as it ought to be. It will be necessary to produce some in- 
stances, which will both show the importance of this rule, and 
make the application of it understood. 

First ; in the position of adverbs, which are used to qualify 
the signification of something which either precedes or follows 
them, there is often a good deal of nicety. " By greatness," 
says Mr. Addison, in the Spectator, No. 412, " I do not only 
mean the bulk of any single object, but the largeness' of a whole 
view." Here the place of the adverb only renders it a limitation 
of the following word, mean. " I do not only mean." The 
question may then be put, What does he more than mean ? Had 
he placed it after bulk, still it would have been wrong. " I do 
not mean the bulk only of any single object." For we might 
then ask, what does he mean more than the bulk ? Is it the 
colour ? or any other property ? Its proper place, undoubtedly, 
is after the word object. " By greatness, I do not mean the bulk 
of any single object only ;" for then, when we put the question, 
What more does he mean than the bulk of a single object? the 
answer comes out exactly as the author intends, and gives it; 
" the largeness of a whole view." — " Theism," says Lord Shaftes- 
bury, " can only be opposed to polytheism or atheism." Does 
he mean that theism is capable of nothing else, except being 
opposed to polytheism or atheism ? This is what his words 
literally import, through the wrong collocation of only. He 
should have said, « Theism can be opposed only to polytheism 
or atheism." — In like manner, Dean Swift (Project for the Ad 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 133 

vanceaient of Religion), " The Romans understood liberty, at 
least, as well as we." These words are capable of two different 
senses, according as the emphasis, in reading them, is laid upon 
liberty, or upon at least. In the first case, they will signify, that 
whatever other things we may understand better than the Ro- 
mans, liberty, at least was one thing which they understood as 
well as we. In the second case, they will import, that liberty 
was understood, at least, as well by them* as by us ; meaning, 
that by them it was better understood. If this last, as I make 
no doubt, was Dean Swift's own meaning, the ambiguity would 
have been avoided, and the sense rendered independent of the 
manner of pronouncing, by arranging the words thus : "■ The 
Romans understood liberty as well, at least, as we." The fact 
is, with respect to such adverbs, as, only, wholly, at least, and 
the rest of that tribe, that in common discourse, the tone and 
emphasis we use in pronouncing them, generally serves to show 
their reference, and to make the meaning clear ; and hence, we 
acquire a habit of throwing them in loosely in the course of a 
period. But, in writing, where a man speaks to the eye, and 
not to the ear, he ought to be more accurate ; and so to connect 
those adverbs with the words which they qualify, as to put his 
meaning out of doubt upon the first inspection. 

Secondly ; when a circumstance is interposed in the middle 
of a sentence, it sometimes requires attention how to place it, 
so as to divest it of all ambiguity. For instance : " Are these 
designs," (says Lord Bolingbroke, Dissert, on Parties, Dedicat.) 
" Are these designs, which any man, who is born a Briton, in 
any circumstances, in any situation, ought to be ashamed or 
afraid to avow ?" Here we are left at a loss, whether these 
words, " in any circumstances, in any situation," are connected 
with, " a man born in Britain, in any circumstances, or situa- 
tion," or with that man's " avowing his designs, in any circum- 
stances, or situation, into which he may be brought " If the 
latter, as seems most probable, was intended to be the meaning, 
the arrangement ought to have been conducted thus : u Art 
these designs, which any man, who is born a Briton, ought to 
be ashamed or afraid, in any circumstances, in any situation, to 
avow ?" But, 

* Thirdly ; still more attention is required to 0>e proper dis- 
position of the relative pronouns, who, which, what, whose, and 
of all those particles which express the connection of the parts 
of speech -with one another. As all reasoning depends upon this 
connection, we cannot be too accurate and precise here. A 



134 LECTURE XL 

small error may overcloud the meaning of the whole sentence ; 
and even where the meaning is intelligible, yet where these rela 
*ive particles are out of their proper place, Ave always find some- 
thing awkward and disjointed in the structure of the sentence. 
Thus, in the Spectator (No. 54) : " This kind of wit," says Mr. 
Addison, " was very much in vogue among our countrymen, 
about an age or two ago, who did not practise it for any oblique 
reason, but purely for the sake of being witty." We are at no 
loss about the meaning here ; but the construction would evi- 
dently be mended by disposing of the circumstance, u about an 
age or two ago," in such a manner as not to separate the relative 
who from its antecedent our countrymen ; in this way : " About 
an age or two ago, this kind of wit was very much in vogue 
among our countrymen, who did not practise it for any oblique 
reason, but purely for the sake of being witty." — Spectator, 
No. 412. " We no where meet with a more glorious and pleasing 
show in nature than what appears in the heavens at the rising 
and setting of the sun, which is wholly made up of those different 
stains of light that show themselves in clouds of a different situ- 
ation. Which is here designed to connect with the word show, 
as its antecedent; but it stands so wide from it, that, without a 
careful attention to the sense, we should be naturally led, by the 
rules of syntax, to refer it to the rising and setting of the sun, 
or to the sun itself; and hence an indistinctness is thrown over 
the whole sentence. The following passage, in Bishop Sher- 
lock's Sermons (vol. ii. serm. 15.) is still more censurable. * It 
is folly to pretend to arm ourselves against the accidents of life 
by heaping up treasures, which nothing can protect us against, 
but the good providence of our Heavenly Father." Which always 
refers grammatically to the immediately preceding substantive, 
which here is treasures, and this would make nonsense of the 
whole period. Every one feels this impropriety. The sentence 
ought to have stood thus : " It is folly to pretend, by heaping up 
treasures, to arm ourselves against the accidents of life, which 
nothing can protect us against, but the good providence of our 
Heavenly Father." 

Of the like nature is the following inaccuracy of Dean Swift's. 
He is recommending to young clergymen to write their sermons 
fully and distinctly. " Many," says he, " act so directly contrary 
to this method, that, from a habit of saving time and paper, 
which they acquired at the university, they write in so diminutive 
a manner, that they can hardly read what they have written." 
He certainly does not mean that they had acquired time and 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 186 

paper at the university, but that they had acquired this habit 
there; and therefore his words ought (o have run thus : a From 
a habit which they have acquired at the university, of saving 
time and paper, they w v ite in so diminutive a manner." In 
another passage, the same author has left his meaning altogether 
uncertain, by misplacing a relative. It is in the conclusion of 
his letter to a member of parliament, concerning the sacramental 
test : " Thus I have fairly given you, sir, my own opinion, as 
well as that of a great majority of both houses here, relating to 
this weighty affair, upon which I am confident you may securely 
reckon." Now, I ask, what it is he would have bis correspon- 
dent to reckon upon securely ? The natural construction leads 
to these words, " this weighty affair." But, as it would be diffi- 
cult to make any sense of this, it is more probable he meant that 
the majority of both houses might be securely reckoned upon ; 
though certainly this meaning, as the words are arranged, is 
obscurely expressed. The sentence would be amended by 
arranging it thus : " Thus, sir, I have given you my own 
opinion, relating to this weighty affair, as well as that of a great 
majority of both houses here, upon which I am confident you 
may securely reckon." 

Several other instances might be given ; but I reckon those 
which I have produced sufficient to make the rule understood, 
that, in the construction of sentences, one of the first things to 
be attended to is, the marshalling of the words in such order as 
shall most clearly mark the relation of the several parts of the 
sentence to one another ; particularly, that adverbs shall always 
be made to adhere closely to the words which they are intended 
to qualify ; that, where a circumstance is thrown in, it shall 
never hang loose in the midst of a period, but be determined 
by its place to one or other member of it ; and that every rela- 
tive word which is used shall instantly present its antecedent to 
the mind of the reader, without the least obscurity. I have 
mentioned these three cases, because I think they are the most 
frequent occasions of ambiguity creeping into sentences. 

With regard to relatives, I must further observe, that ob- 
scurity often arises from the too frequent repetition of them, par- 
ticularly of the pronouns, who, and they, and them, and thei7s, 
when we have occasion to refer to different persons ; as, in the 
following sentence of Archbishop Tillotson (vol. i. Serm. 42.) : 
" Men look with an evil eye upon the good that is in others ; 
and think that their reputation obscures them, and their com- 
mendable qualities stand in Iheir light ; and therefore they do 



13<i LECTURE XI. 

what they can to cast a cloud over them, that the bright shining 
of their virtues may not obscure them." This is altogether 
careless writing. It renders style often obscure, always em- 
barrassed and inelegant. When we find these personal pronouns 
crowding too fast upon us, we have often no method left, but to 
throw the whole sentence into some other form, which may avoid 
those frequent references to persons who have before been men- 
tioned. 

All languages are liable to ambiguities. Quintilian gives 
us some instances in the Latin, arising from faulty arrangement. 
A man, he tells us, ordered by his will, to have erected for him, 
after his death, " statuam auream hastam tenentem ;'' upon 
which arose a dispute at law, whether the whole statue, or the 
spear only, was to be of gold ? The same author observes very 
properly, that a sentence is always faulty, when the collocation 
of the words is ambiguous, though the sense can be gathered. 
If any one should say, " Chremetem audivi percussisse De- 
meam," this is ambiguous both in sense and structure, whether 
Cbremes or Demea gave the blow. But if this expression were 
used, " se vidisse hominem librum scribentem," although the 
meaning be clear, yet Quintilian insists that the arrangement is 
wrong. " Nam, " says he, " etiamsi librum ab homine scribi 
pateat, non certe hominem a libro, male tamen composuerat, fe- 
ceratque ambiguum quantum in ipso fuit." Indeed, to have the 
relation of every word and member of a sentence marked in 
the most proper and distinct manner, gives not clearness only, 
but grace and beauty to a sentence, making the mind pass 
smoothly and agreeably along all the parts of it. 

I proceed now to the second quality of a well arranged sen- 
tence, which I termed its unity. This is a capital property. In 
every composition, of whatever kind, some degree of unity is 
required, in order to render it beautiful. There must be always 
some connecting principle among the parts. Some one object 
must reign and be predominant. This, as I shall hereafter show, 
holds in history, in epic and dramatic poetry, and in all orations- 
But most of all, in a single sentence, is required the strictest 
unity. For the very nature of a sentence implies one propo- 
sition to be expressed. It may consist of parts, indeed ; but 
these parts must be so closely bound together, as to make the 
impression upon the mind, of one object, not of many. Now, 
in order to preserve this unity of a sentence, the following rules 
must be observed. 

In the first place, during the course of the sentence, the 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 131 

scene should be changed as little as possible. We should not 
be hurried by sudden transitions from person to person, nor 
from subject to subject. There is commonly, in every sentence, 
some person or thing, which is the governing word. This 
should be continued so, if possible, from the beginning to the 
end of it. Should I express myself thus ; " After we came to 
anchor, they put me on shore, where I was welcomed by all my 
friends, who received me with the greatest kindness." In this 
sentence, though the objects contained in it have a sufficient 
connection with each other, yet, by this manner of representing 
them, by shifting so often both the place and the person, we, and 
they, and /, and who, they appear in such a disunited view, that 
the sense of connection is almost lost. The sentence is restored 
to its proper unity, by turning it after the following manner : 
" Having come to an anchor, I was put on shore, where I was 
welcomed by all my friends, and received with the greatest kind- 
ness." Writers who transgress this rule, for the most part 
transgress at the same time. 

A second rule : never to crowd into one sentence, things 
which have so little connection, that they could bear to be clivi 
ded into two or three sentences. The violation of this rule 
never fails to hurt and displease a reader. Its effect, indeed, is so 
bad, that, of the two, it is the safer extreme, to err rather by too 
many short sentences, than by one that is overloaded and embar- 
rassed. Examples abound in authors. I shall produce some, to 
justify what I now say. " Archbishop Tillotson," says an author 
of the History of England, " died in this year. He was exceed- 
ingly beloved both by King William and Queen Mary, who no- 
minated Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Lincoln, to succeed him." 
Who would expect the latter part of this sentence to follow, 
in consequence of the former ? " He was exceedingly beloved 
by both king and queen," is the proposition of the sentence : 
we look for some proof of this, or at least something re- 
lated to it, to follow ; when we are on a sudden carried off to 
a new proposition, " who nominated Dr. Tennison to succeed 
him." The following is from Middleton's Life of Cicero : " In 
this uneasy state, both of his public and private life, Cicero was 
oppressed by a new and cruel affliction, the death of his be- 
loved daughter Tullia ; which happened soon after her divorce 
from Dolabella, whose manners and humours were entirely 
disagreeable to her." The principal object in this sentence is^ 
the death of Tullia, which was the cause of her father's affliction ; 
the date of it, as happening soon after her divorce from Dola- 



138 LECTURE XL 

bella, may enter into the sentence with propriety ; but the 
subjunction of Dolabella's character is foreign to the main 
object, and breaks the unity and compactness of the sentence 
totally, by setting a new picture before the reader. The fol- 
lowing sentence, from a translation of Plutarch, is still worse : 
" Their march," says the author, speaking of the Greeks under 
Alexander, " their march was through an uncultivated country, 
whose savage inhabitants fared hardly, having no other riches 
than a breed of lean sheep, whose flesh was rank and unsavoury, 
by reason of their continual feeding upon sea-fish." Here the 
scene is changed upon us again and again. The march of the 
Greeks, the description of the inhabitants through whose country 
they travelled, the account of their sheep, and the cause of 
their sheep being ill-tasted food, form a jumble of objects, 
slightly related to each other, which the reader cannot, without 
much difficulty, comprehend under one view. 

These examples have been taken from sentences of no great 
length, yet over crowded. Authors who deal in long sentences, 
are very apt to be faulty in this article. One need only open 
Lord Clarendon's History to find examples every where. The 
long, involved, and intricate sentences of that author, are the 
greatest blemish of his composition ; though in other respects 
as a historian, he has considerable merit. In later, and more 
correct writers than Lord Clarendon, we find a period sometimes 
running out so far, and comprehending so many particulars, 
as to be more properly a discourse than a sentence. Take, for 
an instance, the following from Sir William Temple, in his 
Essay upon Poetry : " The usual acceptation takes profit^ and 
pleasure for two different things ; and not only calls the fol- 
lowers or votaries of them by the several names of busy and 
idle men ; but distinguishes the faculties of the mind, that are 
conversant about them, calling the operations of the first, 
wisdom , and of the other, wit ; which is a Saxon word used 
to express what the Spaniards and Italians call ingeniu, and the 
French, esprit, both from the Latin ; though I think wit more 
particularly signifies that of poetry, as may occur in remarks on 
the Runic language." When one arrives at the end of such 
a puzzled sentence, he is surprised to find himself got to so 
great a distance from the object with which he at first set out. 

Lord Shaftesbury, often betrayed into faults by his love of 
magnificence, shall afford us the next example. It is in his 
Rhapsody, where he is describing the cold regions : " At length," 
says he, u the sun approaching, melts the snow, sets longing men 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 139 

at liberty, and affords them means and time to make provision 
against the next return of cold." This first sentence is correct 
enough ; but he goes on : « It breaks the icy fetters of the 
main, where vast sea-monsters pierce through floating islands, 
with arms which can withstand the crystal rock ; whilst others, 
who of themselves seem great as islands, are by their bulk 
alone armed against all but man, whose superiority over crea- 
tures of such stupendous size and force, should make him 
mindful of his privilege of reason, and force him humbly to 
adore the great Composer of these wondrous frames, and the 
Author of his own superior wisdom." Nothing can be more 
unhappy or embarrassed than this sentence ; the worse too, as it 
is intended to be descriptive, where every thing should be clear. 
It forms no distinct image whatever. The it, at the beginning, 
is ambiguous, whether it mean the sun or the cold. The object 
is , changed three times in the sentence ; beginning with the sun, 
which breaks the icy fetters of the main ; then the sea-monsters 
become the principal personages ; and lastly, by a very unex- 
pected transition, man is brought into view, and receives a long 
and serious admonition before the sentence closes. I do not at 
present insist on the impropriety of such expressions as, God's 
being the composer of frames ; and the sea-monsters having arms 
that withstand rocks. Shaftesbury's strength lay in reasoning and 
sentiment, more than in description ; however much his descrip- 
tions have been sometimes admired. 

I shall only give one instance more on this head, from Dean 
Swift ; in his Proposal, too, for correcting the English Lan- 
guage : where, in place of a sentence, he has given a loose dis- 
sertation upon several subjects. Speaking of the progress of 
our language, after the time of Cromwell : " To this succeeded," 
says he, " that licentiousness which entered with the restoration, 
and, from infecting our religion and morals, fell to corrupt our 
language ; which last was not like to be much improved by 
those, who at that time made up the court of king Charles the 
Second ; either such as had followed him in his banishment, or 
who had been altogether conversant in the dialect of these fanatic 
times ; or young men who had been educated in the same coun- 
try ; so that the court, which used to be the standard of correct- 
ness and propriety of speech, was then, and I think has ever 
since continued, the worst school in England for that accom- 
plishment ; and so will remain, till better care be taken in the 
education of our nobility, that they may set out into the world 
with some foundation of literature, in order to qualify them for 



140 LECTURE XI. 

patterns of politeness." How many different facts, reasonings, 
and observations, are here presented to the mind at once ! and 
yet so linked together by the author, that they all make parts of 
a sentence, which admits of no greater division in pointing, than 
a semicolon between any of its members ? Having mentioned 
pointing, I shall here take notice, that it is in vain to propose, 
by arbitrary punctuation, to amend the defects of a sentence, to 
correct its ambiguity, or to prevent its confusion. For commas, 
colons, and points, do not make the proper divisions of thought ; 
but only serve to mark those which arise from the tenor of the 
author's expression ; and, therefore, they are proper or not, just 
according as they correspond to the natural division of the 
sense. When they are inserted in wrong places, they deserve, 
and will meet with no regard. 

I proceed to a third rule, for preserving the unity of sen- 
tences ; which is, to keep clear of all parentheses in the middle 
of them. On some occasions, these may have a spirited appear- 
ance ; as prompted by a certain vivacity of thought, which can 
glance happily aside, as it is going along But, for the most 
part, their effect is extremely bad : being a sort of wheels within 
wheels ; sentences in the midst of sentences ; the perplexed 
method of disposing of some thought, which a writer wants art 
to introduce in its proper place. It were needless to give many 
instances, as they occur so often among incorrect writers. I 
shall produce one from Lord Bolingbroke, the rapidity of whose 
genius and manner of writing, betrays him frequently into inac- 
curacies of this sort. It is in the introduction to his Idea of a 
Patriot King, where he writes thus : " It seems to me, that, in 
order to maintain the system of the world, at a certain point, 
far below that of ideal perfection (for we are made capable of 
conceiving what we are incapable of attaining,) but, however, 
sufficient upon the whole, to constitute a state easy and happy, 
or, at the worst, tolerable ; I say, it seems to me, that the 
Author of nature has thought fit to mingle, from time to time, 
among the societies of men, a few, and but a few, of those 
on whom he is graciously pleased to bestow a larger portion 
of the ethereal spirit, than is given in the ordinary course of his 
government, to the sons of men." A very bad sentence this ; 
into which, by the help of a parenthesis, and other interjected 
circumstances, his lordship had contrived to thrust so many 
things, that he is forced to begin the construction again with 
the phrase I say, which, whenever it occurs, may be always 
assumed as a sure mark of a clumsy ill- constructed sentence ; 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 141 

excusable in speaking, where the greatest accuracy is not ex- 
pected, but in polished writing, unpardonable. 

I shall add only one rule more for the unity of a sen- 
tence, which is, to bring it always to a full and perfect close. 
Every thing that is one, should have a beginning, a middle, 
and an end. I need not take notice, that an unfinished sen- 
tence is no sentence at all, according to any grammatical rule. 
But very often we meet with sentences, that are, so to speak, 
more than finished. When we have arrived at what we ex- 
pected was to be the conclusion, when we are come to the 
word on which the mind is naturally led, by what went before, 
to rest : unexpectedly, some circumstance pops out, which ought 
to have been omitted, or to have been disposed of elsewhere ; but 
which is left lagging behind, like a tail adjected to the sentence ; 
somewhat that, as Mr. Pope describes the Alexandrine line, 

" Like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along." 
All these adjections to the proper close, disfigure a sentence 
extremely. They give it a lame ungraceful air, and, in par- 
ticular they break its unity. Dean Swift, for instance, in his 
Letter to a Young Clergyman, speaking of Cicero's writings, 
expresses himself thus : " With these writings young divines 
are more conversant than with those of Demosthenes, who, 
by many degrees, excelled the other ; at least, as an orator." 
Here the natural close of the sentence is at these words, " ex- 
celled the other." These words conclude the proposition ; we 
look for no more ; and the circumstance added, " at least as an 
orator," comes in with a very halting pace. How much more 
compact would the sentence have been, if turned thus : " With 
these writings, young divines are more conversant than with 
those of Demosthenes, who by many degrees, as an orator at 
least, excelled the other." In the following sentence from Sir 
William Temple, the adjection to the sentence is altogether 
foreign to it. Speaking of Burnet's Theory of the Earth, and 
Fontenelle's Plurality of Worlds, " The first," says he, " could 
not end his learned treatise, without a panegyric of modern 
learning in comparison of the ancient ; and the other falls so 
grossly into the censure of the old poetry, and preference of the 
new, that I could not ^ead either of these strains without some 
indignation^ which no quality among men is so apt to raise in 
ne as self-sufficiency." The word " indignation" concluded the 
sentence ; the last member, " which no quality among men is so 
apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency," is a proposition altogether 
new, added after the proper close 



148 

LECTURE XII. 

STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

Having treated of perspicuity and unity, as necessary 
to be studied in the structure of sentences, I proceed to the 
third quality of a correct sentence, which I termed strength. 
By this I mean, such a disposition of the several words and 
members, as shall bring out the sense to the best advantage ; 
as shall render the impression, which the period is designed to 
make, most full and complete ; and give every word, and every 
member, their due weight and force The two former qualities 
of perspicuity and unity, are, no doubt, absolutely necessary to 
the production of this effect ; but more is still requisite. For a 
sentence may be clear enough, it may also be compact enough, 
in all its parts, or have the requisite unity ; and yet, by some un- 
favourable circumstance in the structure, it may fail in that 
strength or liveliness of impression, which a more happy ar- 
rangement would have produced. 

The first rule which I shall give, for promoting the strength 
of a sentence, is, to divest it of all redundant words. These 
may, sometimes, be consistent with a considerable degree both 
of clearness and unity ; but they are always enfeebling. They 
make the sentence move along tardy and encumbered : 

Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se 
Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures.* 

It is a general maxim, that any words which do not add some 
importance to the meaning of a sentence, always spoil it. They 
cannot be superfluous, without being hurtful. " Obstat," says 
Quintilian, " quicquid non adjuvat." All that can be easily 
supplied in the mind, is better left out in the expression. Thus : 
u Content with deserving a triumph, he refused the honour of 
it," is better language than to say, " Being content with deserv- 
ing a triumph, he refused the honour of it." I consider it, 
therefore, as one of the most useful exercises of correction, upon 
reviewing what we have written or composed, to contract that 
round-about method of expression, and to lop off those useless 
excrescences which are commonly found in a first draught. 
Here a severe eye should be employed ; and we shall always 

• " Concise your diction, let your sense be clear, 

Nor, with a weight of words, fatigue the ear."— FitANcis. 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 143 

find our sentences acquire more vigour and energy when thus 
retrenched ; provided always, that we run not into the extreme 
of pruning so very close, as to give a hardness and dryness to 
style. For here, as in all other things, there is a due medium. 
Some regard, though not the principal, must be had to fulness 
and swelling of sound. Some leaves must be left to surround 
and shelter the fruit. 

As sentences should be cleared of redundant words, so also 
of redundant, members. As every word ought to present a new 
idea, so every member ought to contain a new thought. Op- 
posed to this, stands the fault we sometimes meet with, of the 
last member of a period being no other than the echo of the 
former, or the repetition of it in somewhat a different form. For 
example ; speaking of beauty, " The very first discovery of it," 
says Mr. Addison, " strikes the mind with inward joy, and 
spreads delight through all its faculties." (No. 412.) And 
elsewhere, " It is imposible for us to behold the divine works 
with coldness or indifference, or to survey so many beauties, 
without a secret satisfaction and complacency." (No. 413.) In 
both these instances, little or nothing is added by the second 
member of the sentence to what was already expressed in the 
first: and though the free and flowing manner of such an 
author as Mr Addison, and the graceful harmony of his pe- 
riods, may palliate such negligences ; yet, in general, it holds, 
that style, freed from this prolixity, appears both more strong 
and more beautiful. The attention becomes remiss, the mind 
falls into inaction, when words are multiplied without a corre- 
sponding multiplication of ideas. 

After removing superfluities, the second direction I give for 
promoting the strength of a sentence, is, to attend particularly 
to the use of copulatives, relatives, and all the particles em- 
ployed for transition and connection. These little words, but, 
and, which, whose, where, &c. are frequently the most important 
words of any; they are the joints or hinges upon which all 
sentences turn ; and, of course, much, both of their gracefulness 
and strength, must depend upon such particles. The varieties 
in using them are, indeed, so infinite, that no particular system 
of rules respecting them can be given. Attention to the practice 
of the most accurate writers, joined with frequent trials of the 
different effects, produced by a different usage of those particles, 
must here direct us.* Some observations I shall mention, which 

* On this head, Dr. Lowtl.'s Short Introduction to English Grammar deserves 
to be consulted ; where several niceties of the language are well pointed out. 



144 LECTURE XU. 

have occurred to me as useful, without pretending to exhaust the 
subject. 

What is called splitting of particles, or separating a pre- 
position from the noun which it governs, is always to be avoided. 
As if I should say, " Though virtue borrows no assistance from, 
yet it may often be accompanied by, the advantages of fortune." 
In such instances, we feel a sort of pain from the revulsion, or 
violent separation of two things, which, by their nature, should 
be closely united. We are put to a stand in thought ; being 
obliged to rest for a little on the preposition by itself, which, at 
the same time, carries no significancy, till it is joined to its 
proper substantive noun. 

Some writers needlessly multiply demonstrative and relative 
particles, by the frequent use of such phraseology as this : 
" There is nothing which disgusts us sooner than the empty 
pomp of language." In introducing a subject, or laying down a 
proposition, to which we demand particular attention, this sort 
of style is very proper ; but in the ordinary current of dis- 
course, it is better to express ourselves more simply and 
shortly : " Nothing disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of 
language." 

Other writers make a practice of omitting the relative, in 
a phrase of a different kind from the former, where they think 
the meaning can be understood without it. As, " The man I 
love." — a The dominions we possessed, and the conquests we 
made." But though this elliptical style be intelligible, and is 
allowable in conversation and epistolary writing, yet, in all 
writings of a serious or dignified kind, it is ungraceful. There, 
the relative should always be inserted in its proper place, and 
the construction filled up : " The man whom I love." — " The 
dominions which we possessed, and the conquests which we 
made." 

With regard to the copulative particle, and, which occurs 
so frequently in all kinds of composition, several observations are 
to be made. First, it is evident, that the unnecessary repetition 
of it enfeebles style. It has the same sort of effect, as the fre- 
quent use of the vulgar phrase, and so, when one is telling a 
story in common conversation. We shall take a sentence from 
Sir William Temple, for an instance. He is speaking of the 
refinement of the French language : " The academy set up by 
Cardinal Richelieu, to amuse the wits of that age and country, 
and divert them from raking into his politics and ministry 
brought this into vogue ; and the French wits have, for this last 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

sage, been whohy turned to the refinement of their styta and 
language ; and, indeed, with such success, that it can hardly be 
equalled, and runs equally through their verse and their prose." 
Here are no fewer than eight auds in one sentence. This agree- 
able writer too often makes his sentences drag in this manner, by 
a careless multiplication of copulatives. It is strange how a 
writer so accurate as Dean Swift should have stumbled on so 
improper an application of this particle, as he has made in the 
following sentence ; Essay on the Fates of Clergymen. " There 
is no talent so useful towards rising in the world, or which puts 
men more out of the reach of fortune, than that quality generally 
possest by the dullest sort of people, and is, in common lan- 
guage, called discretion ; a species of lower prudence, by the 
assistance of which," &c. By the insertion of, and is, in place 
of which is, he has not only clogged the sentence, but even made 
it ungrammatical. 

But in the next place, it is worthy of observation that 
though the natural use of the conjunction, and, be to join objects 
together, and thereby, as one would think, to make their con- 
nection more close ; yet, in fact, by dropping the conjunction, 
we often mark a closer connection, a quicker succession of 
objects, than when it is inserted between them. Longinus 
makes this remark, which from many instances, appears to be 
just : " Veni, vidi, vici,"* expresses 3 with more spirit, the rapid- 
ity and quick succession of conquest, than if connecting parti- 
cles had been used> So in the following description of a rout 
in Caesar's Commentaries : " Nostri, emissis pilis, gladiis rem 
gerunt ; repente post tergum equitatus cernitur ; cohortes alias 
appropinquant. Hostes terga vertunt ; fugientibus equites oc- 
currunt ; fit magna casdes."-}- Bell. Gal. 1. 7. 

Hence, it follows, that when, on the other hand, we seek to 
prevent a quick transition from one object to another, when we 
are making some enumeration, in which we wish that the objects 
should appear as distinct from each other as possible, and that 
the mind should rest, for a moment, on each object by itself; in 
this case, copulatives may be multiplied with peculiar advantage 
and grace. As when Lord Bolingbroke says, " Such a man 
might fall a victim to power ; but truth, and reason, and liberty 
would fall with him." In the same manner, Caesar describes an 

* " I came, I saw, I conquered." 

t " Our men, after having discharged their javelins, attack with sword in 
hand : of a sudden the cavalry make their appearance behind; other bodies of 
men are seen drawing near : the enemies turn their backs ; the horse meet men 
in their flight ; a great slaughter ensues. 



146 LECTURE XII. 

engagement with the Nervii : " His equitibus facile pulsis ac 
proturbatis, incredibili celeritate ad fluraen decurrerunt ; ut 
pene uno tempore, et ad silvas, et in flumine, et jam in manibus 
nostris, hostes viderentur."* Bell. Gal. 1. 2. Here, although 
he is describing a quick succession of events, yet, as it is his in- 
dention to show in how many places the enemy seemed to be at. 
one time, the copulative is very happily redoubled, in order to 
paint more strongly the distinction of these several places. 

This attention to the several cases, when it is proper to 
omit, and when to redouble the copulative, is of considerable 
importance to all who study eloquence. For, it is a remarkable 
particularity in language, that the omission of a connecting par 
tide should sometimes serve to make objects appear more 
closely connected ; and that the repetition of it should distin- 
guish and separate them, in some measure, from each other. 
Hence, the omission of it is used to denote rapidity ; and the 
repetition of it is designed to retard, and to aggravate. The 
reason seems to be, that, in the former case, the mind is suppos- 
ed to be hurried so fast through a quick succession of objects, 
that it has not leisure to point out their connection ; it drops the 
copulatives in its hurry ; and crowds the whole series together, 
as if it were but one object. Whereas, when we enumerate, 
with a view to aggravate, the mind is supposed to proceed with 
a more slow and solemn pace ; it marks fully the relation of 
each object to that which succeeds it ; and, by joining them to- 
gether with several copulatives, makes you perceive that the 
objects, though connected, are yet, in themselves, distinct ; that 
they are many, not one. Observe, for instance, in the following 
enumeration, made by the apostle Paul, what additional weight 
and distinctness is given to each particular, by the repetition of 
a conjunction. " I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, 
nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor 
things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, 
shall be able to separate us from the love of God." Rom. viii- 
38, 39. So much with regard to the use of copulatives. 

I proceed to a third rule, for promoting the strength of a 
sentence, which is to dispose of the capital word, or words, in 
that place of the sentence, where they will make the fullest im- 
pression. That such capital words there are in every sentence, 

* " The enemy, having easily beat off, and scattered this body of horse, ran 
down with incredible celerity to the river ; so that, almost at one moment of time, 
they appeared to be in the woods and in the river, and in the midst of our 
troops." 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 147 

on which the meaning principally rests, every one must see ; 
and that these words should possess a conspicuous and distin- 
guished place, is equally plain. Indeed, that place of the sen- 
tence where they will make the best figure, whether the beginning 
or the end, or sometimes, even the middle, cannot, as far as I 
know, be ascertained by any precise rule. This must vary with 
the nature of the sentence. Perspicuity must ever be studied in 
the first place ; and the nature of our language allows no great 
liberty in the choice of collocation. For the most part, with us, 
the important words are placed in the beginning of the sentence. 
So Mr. Addison ; " The pleasures of the imagination, taken in 
their full extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined 
as those of the understanding." And this, indeed, seems the most 
plain and natural order, to place that in the front which is the 
chief object of the proposition we are laying down. Sometimes, 
however, when we intend to give weight to a sentence, it is of 
advantage to suspend the meaning for a little, and then bring it 
qpt full at the close : " Thus," says Mr. Pope, " on whatever side 
we contemplate Homer, what principally strikes us, is, his won- 
derful invention." (Pref. to Homer.) 

The Greek and Latin writers had a considerable advantage 
above us, in this part of style. By the great liberty of inver- 
sion, which their languages permitted, they could choose the 
most advantageous situation for every word ; and had it thereby 
in their power to give their sentences more force. Milton, in 
his prose works, and some other of our old English writers, 
endeavoured to imitate them in this. But the forced construc- 
tions, which they employed, produced obscurity ; and the genius 
of our language, as it is now written and spoken, will not admit 
such liberties. Mr. Gordon, who followed this inverted style in 
his translation of Tacitus, has, sometimes, done such violence to 
the language, as even to appear ridiculous ; as in this expression : 
K Into this hole, thrust themselves, three Roman senators." He 
has translated so simple a phrase as, " Nullum ea tempestate 
bellum," by, K War at that time there was none." However, 
within certain bounds, and to a limited degree, our language 
does admit of inversions ; and they are practised with success 
by the best writers. So Mr. Pope, speaking of Homer, " The 
praise of judgment Virgil has justly contested with him, but his 
invention yet remains unrivalled." It is evident, that in order to 
give the sentence its due force, by contrasting properly the two 
capital words " judgment and invention," this is a happier ar- 
rangement than if he had followed the natural order, which was, 

l2 



118 



LECTURE XII 



" Virgil has justly contested with him the praise of judgment, 
but his invention remains yet unrivalled." 

Some writers practise this degree of inversion, which our 
language bears, much more than others ; Lord Shaftesbury, for 
instance, much more than Mr. Addison ; and to this sort of 
arrangement is owing, in a great measure, that appearance of 
strength, dignity, and. varied harmony, which Lord Shaftesbury's 
style possesses. This will appear from the following sentences 
of his Inquiry into Virtue ; where all the words are placed, not 
strictly in the natural order, but with that artificial construction, 
which may give the period most emphasis and grace. He is 
speaking of the misery of vice : " This, as to the complete 
immoral state, is, what of their own accord men readily remark. 
Where there is this absolute degeneracy, this total apostasy from 
all candour, trust, or equity, there are few who do not see and 
acknowledge the misery which is consequent. Seldom is the 
case misconstrued when at worst. The misfortune is, that we 
look not on this depravity, nor consider how it stands, in less 
degrees. As if, to be absolutely immoral, were, indeed, the 
greatest misery; and to be so in a little degree, should be no 
misery or harm at all. Which to allow, is just as reasonable as 
to own, that it is the greatest ill of a body to be in the utmost 
manner maimed or distorted ; but that, to lose the use only of 
one limb, or to be impaired in some single organ or member, is 
no ill worthy the least notice." (Vol. ii. p. 82.) Here is no 
violence done to the language, though there are many inversions. 
All is stately, and arranged with art ; which is the great cha- 
racteristic of this author's style. 

We need only open any page of Mr. Addison, to see quite 
a different order in the construction of sentences. " Our sight 
is the most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses. It 
fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with 
its objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest 
in action, without being tired, or satiated with its proper enjoy- 
ments. The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of 
extension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except 
colours ; but at the same time, it is very much straitened and 
confined in its operations," &c. (Spectator, No. 411.) In this 
strain he always proceeds, following the most natural and 
obvious order of the language ; and if, by this means, he has 
less pomp and majesty than Shaftesbury, he has, in return, more 
nature, more ease and simplicity; which are beauties of a 
higher order. 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 249 

But whether we practise inversion or not, and in whatever 
.part of the sentence we dispose of the capital words, it is always 
a point of great moment, that these capital words shall stand 
clear and disentangled from any other words that would clog 
them. Thus, when there are any circumstances of time, place, 
or other limitations, which the principal object of our sentence 
requires to have connected with it, we must take especial care 
to dispose of them, so as not to cloud that principal object, nor 
to bury it under a load of circumstances. Thi3 will be made 
clearer by an example. Observe the arrangement of the fol- 
lowing sentence, in Lord Shaftesbury's Advice to an Author. 
He is speaking of modern poets, as compared with the ancient: 
* If, whilst they profess only to please, they secretly advise and 
give instruction, they may now, perhaps, as well as formerly, be 
esteemed, with justice, the best and most honourable among 
authors." This is a well-constructed sentence. It contains a 
great many circumstances and adverbs, necessary to qualify the 
meaning ; only, secretly, as well, perhaps, now, with justice, for- 
merly ; yet these are placed with so much art, as neither to 
embarrass nor weaken the sentence ; while that which is the 
capital object in it, viz. " Poets being justly esteemed the best 
and most honourable among authors," comes out in the con- 
clusion clear and detached, and possesses its proper place. See, 
now, what would have been the effect of a different arrangement. 
Suppose him to have placed the members of the sentence thus • 
" If, whilst they profess to please only, they advise and give 
instruction secretly, they may be esteemed the bast and most 
honourable among authors, with justice, perhaps, now, as wel3 
as formerly." Here we have precisely the same words and the 
same sense ; but, by means of the circumstances being so inter- 
mingled as to clog the capital words, the whole becomes per- 
plexed, without grace, and without strength. 

A fourth rule for constructing sentences with proper strength, 
is, to make the members of them go on rising and growing in 
their importance above one another. This sort of arrangement 
is called a climax, and is always considered as a beauty in com- 
position. From what cause it pleases, is abundantly evident. 
la all things, we naturally love to ascend to what is more and 
more beautiful, rather than to follow the retrograde order 
Having had once some considerable object set before us, it is 
with pain we are pulled back to attend to an inferior circum- 
stance. " Cavendum est," says Quintilian, whose authority 
1 always willingly quote. " ne decrescat oratio et fortior 



150 LECTURE XII. 

subjungatur aliquid mfirmius ; sicut, sacrilegio, fur ; aut latroni 
petulans. Augeri enim debent sententiae et insurgere."* Of 
this beauty, in the construction of sentences, the orations of 
Cicero furnish many examples. His pompous manner naturally 
fed him to study it; and generally, in order to render the 
climax perfect, he makes both the sense and the sound rise 
together, with a very magnificent swell. So in his oration 
for Milo, speaking of a design of Clodius's for assassinating 
Pompey : " At qui si res, si vir, si tempus ullum dignum fuit, 
certe heec in ilia causa summa omnia fuerunt. Insidiator erat 
in Foro collocatus, atque in vestibulo ipso SenaMs ; ei viro 
autem mors parabatur, cujus in vita nitebatur salus civitatis ; 
eo porro reipublicoe tempore, quo si unus ille occidisset, non 
hsec solum civitas, sed gentes omnes concidissent." The fol- 
lowing instance, from Lord Bolingbroke, is also beautiful : 
* This decency, this grace, this propriety of manners to charac- 
ter, is so essential to princes in particular, that, whenever 
it is neglected, their virtues lose a great degree of lustre, and 
their defects acquire much aggravation. Nay, more ; by 
neglecting this decency and this grace, and for want of a 
sufficient regard to appearances, even their virtues may betray 
them into failings, their failings into vices, and their vices into 
habits unworthy of princes, and unworthy of men." (Idea of a 
Patriot King.) 

I must observe, however, that this sort of full and oratorial 
climax, can neither be always obtained, nor ought to be always 
sought after. Only some kinds of writing admit of such sen- 
tences ; and to study them too frequently, especially if the 
subject require not so much pomp, is affected and disagreeable. 
But there is something approaching to a climax, which it is 
a general rule to study, " ne decrescat ©ratio," as Quintilian 
speaks, " et ne fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius." A 
weaker assertion or proposition should never come after a 
stronger one ;^and when our sentence consists of two members, 
the longest should, generally, be the concluding one. There 
is a two-fold reason for this last direction. Periods thus 
divided, are pronounced more easily ; and the shortest member 
being placed first, we carry it more readily in our memory 
as we proceed to the second, and see the connection of the 

* " Care must be taken, that our composition shall not fall off, and that a 
weaker expression shall not follow one of more strength ; as if, after sacrilege, we 
should bring in theft ; or, having mentioned a robbery, we should subjoin petu- 
lance. Sentences ought always to rise and grow." 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 15J 

two more clearly. Thus, to say, " When our passions have 
forsaken us, we flatter ourselves with the belief that we have 
forsaken them/' is both more graceful and more clear, than 
to begin with the longest part of the proposition : " We flatter 
ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken our passions, 
when they have forsaken us." In general, it is always agreeable 
to find a sentence rising upon us, and growing in its importance 
to the very last word, when this construction can be managed 
without affectation, or unseasonable pomp. " If we rise yet 
higher," says Mr. Addison, very beautifully, " and consider 
the fixed stars as so many oceans of flame, that are each of 
them attended with a different set of planets ; and still dis- 
cover new firmaments and new lights, that are sunk further in 
those unfathomable depths of aether; we are lost in such a 
labyrinth of suns and worlds, and confounded with the magnifi- 
cence and immensity of nature." (Spect. No. 420.) Hence 
follows clearly, 

A fifth rule for the strength of sentences ; which is, to avoid 
concluding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any incon- 
siderable word. Such conclusions are always enfeebling and 
degrading. There are sentences, indeed, where the stress and 
significancy rest chiefly upon some words of this kind. In 
this case, they are not to be considered as circumstances, but 
as the capital figures ; and ought, in propriety, to have the 
principal place allotted them. No fault, for instance, can be 
found with this sentence of Bolingbroke's : "In their pro- 
sperity, my friends shall never hear of me ; in their adversity, 
always." Where never, and always, being emphatical words, 
were to be so placed, as to make a strong impression. But I 
speak now of those inferior parts of speech, when introduced 
as circumstances, or as qualifications of more important words. 
In such case, they should always be disposed of in the least 
conspicuous parts of the period; and so classed with other 
words of greater dignity, as to be kept in their proper secondary 
station. 

Agreeably to this rule, we should always avoid concluding 
with any of those particles which mark the cases of nouns, — of, 
to, from, with, by. For instance, it is a great deal better to say, 
" Avarice is a crime of which wise men are often guilty," than 
to say, K Avarice is a crime which wise men are often guilty of." 
This is a phraseology which all correct writers shun ; and with 
reason. For, besides the want of dignity which arises from 
those monosyllables at the end, the imagination cannot avoid 
resting, for a little, on the import of the word which closes the 




152 LECTURE XII. 

sentence : and, as those prepositions have no import o£ their 
own, but only serve to point out the relations of other words, it 
is disagreeable for the mind to be left pausing on a word, which 
does not, by itself, produce any idea, nor form any picture in 
the fancy. 

For the same reason, verbs which are used in a compound 
sense, with some of these prepositions, are, though not so bad, 
yet still not so beautiful conclusions of a period ; such as, bring 
about, lay hold of, come over to, clear up, and many other of this 
kind ; instead of which, if we can employ a simple verb, it 
always terminates the sentence with more strength. Even the 
pronoun, it, though it has the import of a substantive noun^ 
and indeed often forces itself upon us unavoidably, yet, when 
we want to give dignity to a sentence, should, if possible, be 
avoided in the conclusion ; more especially when it is joined 
with some of the prepositions, as, with it, in it, to it. In the 
following sentence of the Spectator, which otherwise is abun- 
dantly noble, the bad effect of this close is sensible : " There is 
not in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant considera- 
tion in religion, than this, of the perpetual progress which the 
soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever 
arriving at a period in it." (No. 111.) How much more grace- 
ful the sentence, if it had been so constructed as to close with 
the word, period! 

Besides particles and pronouns, any phrase, which expresses 
a circumstance only, always brings up the rear of a sentence 
with a bad grace. We may judge of this, by the following sen- 
tence from Lord Bolingbroke (Letter on the State of Parties at 
the Accession of King George I.) : " Let me therefore conclude 
by repeating, that division has caused all the mischief we la- 
ment ; that union alone can retrieve it ; and that a great advance 
towards this union, was the coalition of parties, so happily 
begun, so successfully carried on, and of late so unaccountably 
neglected ; to say no worse." This last phrase, to say no worse, 
occasions a sad falling off at the end ; so much the more un- 
happy, as the rest of the period is conducted after the manner of 
a climax, which we expect to find growing to the last. 

The proper disposition of such circumstances in a sentence, 
is often attended with considerable trouble, in order to adjust 
them so, as shall consist equally with the perspicuity and the 
grace of the period. Though necessary parts, they are, how- 
ever, like unshapely stones in a building, which try the skill of 
an artist where to place them with the least offence. " Jurv 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 153 

gantur," says Quintilian, " quo congruunt maxime ; sicut in 
structura saxorura rudium, etiam ipsa enormitas invenit cui 
applicari, et in quo possit insistere."* 

The close is always an unsuitable place for them. When 
the sense admits it, the sooner they are despatched, generally 
speaking, the better ; that the more important and significant 
words may possess the last place^ quite disencumbered. It is a 
rule, too, never to crowd too many circumstances together, but 
rather to intersperse them in different parts of the sentence, 
joined with the capital words on which they depend ;. provided 
that care be taken, as I before directed, not to clog those capital 
words with them. For instance, when Dean Swift says, " What 
I had the honour of mentioning to your lordship, some time ago, 
in conversation, was not a new thought." (Letter to the Earl of 
Oxford.) These two circumstances, sometime ago, and in conver- 
sation, which are here put together, would have had a better 
effect disjoined thus : " What I had the honour, some time ago, 
of mentioning to your lordship in conversation." And in the 
following sentence of Lord Bolingbroke's (Remarks on the His- 
tory of England :) " A monarchy, limited like ours, may be 
placed, for aught I know, as it has been often represented, just 
in the middle point, from whence a deviation leads, on the one 
hand, to tyranny, and on the other to anarchy." The arrange- 
ment would have been happier thus : " A monarchy, limited like 
ours, may, for aught I know, be placed, as it has often been 
represented, just in the middle point," &c. 

I shall give only one rule more, relating to the strength of a 
sentence ; which is, that in the members of a sentence, where 
two things are compared or contrasted to each other; where 
either a resemblance or an opposition is intended to be ex- 
pressed ; some resemblance, in the language and construction, 
should be preserved. For when the things themselves corres- 
pond to each other, we naturally expect to find the words cor- 
responding too. We are disappointed when it is otherwise ; 
and the comparison, or contrast, appears more imperfect. Thus, 
when Lord Bolingbroke says, u The laughers will be for those 
who have most wit ; the serious part of mankind for those who 
nave most reason on their side ; (Dissert, on Parties, Pref.) the 
opposition would have been more complete, if he had said, " The 
laughers will be for those who have most wit ; the serious, for 

* " Let them be inserted wherever the happiest place for them can be found ; 
as, in a structure composed of rough stones, there are always places where the 
most irregular and unshapely may find some adjacent one to which it er.n be 
joined and some basis on which it may rest." 



154 LECTURE XII. 

those who have most reason on their side." The following pas- 
sage from Mr. Pope's Preface to his Homer, fully exemplifies 
the rule I am now giving : " Homer was the greater genius ; 
Virgil the better artist ; in the one, we most admire the man ; in 
the other, the work. Homer hurries us with a commanding im- 
petuosity ; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. Homer 
scatters with a generous profusion ; Virgil bestows with a careful 
magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches with 
a sudden overflow ; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with a con- 
stant stream. And when we look upon their machines, Ho- 
mer seems like his own Jupiter in his terrors; shaking Olympus, 
scattering the lightnings, and firing the heavens ; Virgil, like the 
same power, in his benevolence, counselling with the gods, lay- 
ing plans for empires, and ordering his whole creation." — 
Periods thus constructed, when introduced with propriety, and 
not returning too often, have a sensible beauty. But we must 
beware of carrying our attention to this beauty too far. It 
ought only to be occasionally studied, when comparison or op- 
position of objects naturally leads to it. If such a construction 
as this be aimed at in all our sentences, it leads to a disagree- 
able uniformity: produces a regularly returning clink in the 
period, which tires the ear, and plainly discovers affectation. 
Among the ancients, the style of Isocrates is faulty in this 
respect ; and, on that account, by some of their best critics, 
particularly by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, he is severely 
censured. 

This finishes what I had to say concerning sentences, con- 
sidered with respect to their meaning, under the three heads of 
perspicuity, unity, and strength. It is a subject on which I 
have insisted fully, for two reasons : first, because it is a subject, 
which, by its nature, can be rendered more didactic, and sub- 
jected more to precise rule, than many other subjects of criti. 
cism ; and next, because it appears to me of considerable im- 
portance and use. 

For, though many of those attentions, which I have been 
recommending, may appear minute, yet their effect upon writing 
and style, is much greater than might, at first, be imagined. A 
sentiment which is expressed in a period, clearly, neatly, and 
happily arranged, makes always a stronger impression on the 
mind, than one that is feeble or embarrassed. Every one feels 
this upon a comparison ; and if the effect be sensible in one sen- 
tence, how much more in a whole discourse, or composition, 
that is made up of such sentences. 



HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 155 

The fundamental rule of the construction of sentences, and 
into which all others might be resolved, undoubtedly is, to com- 
municate, in the clearest, and most natural order, the ideas 
which we mean to transfuse into the minds of others. Every 
arrangement that does most justice to the sense, and expresses 
it to most advantage, strikes us as beautiful. To this point 
have tended all the rules I have given. And, indeed, did men 
always think clearly, and were they, at the same time, fully 
masters of the language in which they write, there would be 
occasion for few rules. Their sentences would then, of course, 
acquire all those properties of precision, unity, and strength, 
which I have recommended. For we may rest assured, that, 
whenever we express ourselves ill, there is, besides the mis- 
management of language, for the most part, some mistake in 
our manner of conceiving the subject. Embarrassed, obscure, 
and feeble sentences, are generally, if not always the result of 
embarrassed, obscure, and feeble thought. Thought and lan- 
guage act and re-act upon each other mutually. Logic and rhe- 
toric have here, as in many other cases, a strict connection ; and 
he that is learning to arrange his sentences with accuracy and 
order, is learning, at the same time, to think with accuracy 
and order ; an observation which alone will justify all the care 
and attention we have bestowed on this subject 



LECTURE XIII. 

STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES— HARMONY. 

Hitherto we have considered sentences, with respect 
to their meaning, under the heads of perspicuity, unity, and 
strength. We are now to consider them, with respect to their 
sound, their harmony, or agreeableness to the ear ; which 
was the last quality belonging to them that I proposed to 
treat of. 

Sound is a quality much inferior to sense ; yet such as must 
not be disregarded. For, as long as sounds are the vehicle 
of conveyance for our ideas, there will be always a very con- 
siderable connection between the idea Which is conveyed, and 
the nature of the sound which conveys it. Pleasing ideas can 
hardly be transmitted to the mind, by means of harsh and dis- 
agreeable sounds. The imagination revolts as soon as it hears 
them uttered. " Nihil," says Quintilian, " potest intrare in 



15fi LECTURE Xlll. 

affectum quod in aure, velut quodam vestibulo statim offendit.''" 
Music has naturally a great power over all men to prompt and 
facilitate certain emotions : insomuch, that there are hardly any 
dispositions which we wish to raise in others, but certain sounds 
may be found concordant to those dispositions, and tending to 
promote them. Now, language may, in some degree, be ren- 
dered capable of this power of music ; a circumstance which 
must needs heighten our idea of language as a wonderful inven j~ 
tion. Not content with simply interpreting our ideas to others, 
it can give them those ideas enforced by corresponding sounds ; 
and to the pleasure of communicated thought, can add the new 
and separate pleasure of melody. 

In the harmony of periods, two things may be considered ; 
first, agreeable sound, or modulation in general, without any 
particular expression ; next, the sound so ordered, as to become 
expressive of the sense. The first is the more common ; the 
second, the higher beauty. 

First, let us consider agreeable sound in general, as the 
property of a well-constructed sentence : and, as it was of prose 
sentences we have hitherto treated, we shall confine ourselves 
to them under this head. This beauty of musical construction 
in prose, it is plain, will depend upon two things ; the choice of 
words, and the arrangement of them. 

I begin with the choice of words ; on which head there is not 
much to be said, unless I were to descend into a tedious and 
frivolous detail concerning the powers of the several letters, or 
simple sounds, of which speech is composed. It is evident that 
words are most agreeable to the ear which are composed of 
smooth and liquid sounds, where there is a proper intermixture 
of vowels and consonants, without too many harsh consonants 
rubbing against each other, or too many open vowels in sue- { 
cession, to cause a hiatus or disagreeable aperture of the mouth.' 
It may always be assumed as a principle, that, whatever sounds 
are difficult in pronunciation, are, in the same proportion, harsh 
and painful to the ear. Vowels give softness ; consonants, 
strength to the sound of words. The music of language requires 
a just proportion of both ; and will be hurt, will be rendered 
either grating or effeminate, by an excess of either. Long 
words are commonly more agreeable to the ear than monosyl- 
lables. They please it by the composition, or succession of 

* " Nothing can enter into the affections which stumbles at the threshold, by 
offending the ear." 



HARMONY 01' SENTENCES. 157 

sounds which they present to it ; and accordingly, the most mu- 
sical languages abound most in them. Among words of any 
length, those are the most musical which do not run wholly 
either upon long or short syllables, but are composed of an 
intermixture of them; such as, repent, produce, velocity, celerity, 
independent, impetuosity,, ki ■/}-■'/ ' , v t QAAAt f (?Y\£ *\ 

The next head, respecting the harmony wliich results from 
a proper arrangement of the words and members of a period, is . 
more complex, and of greater nicety. For, let the words them- 
selves be ever so well chosen, and well sounding, yet, if they 
be ill disposed, the music of the sentence is utterly lost. In 
the harmonious structure and disposition of periods, no writer 
whatever, ancient or modern, equals Cicero. He had studied 
this with care ; and was fond, perhaps to excess, of what he calls 
the plena ac numerosa oratio. We need only open his writings 
to find instances that will render the effect of musical language 
sensible to every ear. What, for example, can be more full, 
round, and swelling, than the following sentence of the fourth 
oration against Catiline ? " Cogitate quantis laboribus fundatum 
imperium, quanta virtute stabilitam libertatem, quanta" Deorum 
benignitate auctas exaggeratasque fortunas, una nox psene de- 
lerit." In English, we may take for an instance of a musical 
sentence, the following from Milton, in his Treatise on Edu- 
cation : " We shall conduct you to a hill-side, laborious, indeed, 
at the first ascent; but else, so smooth, so green, so full of 
goodly prospects, and melodious sounds on every side that the 
harp of Orpheus was not more charming." Every thing in this 
sentence conspires to promote the harmony. The words are 
happily chosen ; full of liquids and soft sounds ; laborious, 
smooth, green, goodly, melodious, charming; and these words so 
artfully arranged, that, were we to alter the collocation of any 
one of them, we should presently be sensible of the melody 
suffering. For, let us observe, how finely the members of the 
period swell one above another. " So smooth, so green," — " so 
full of goodly prospects, and melodious sounds on every side," 
till the ear, prepared by this gradual rise, is conducted to that 
full close on which it rests with pleasure ; " that the harp of 
Orpheus was not more charming." 

The s-tructure of periods, then, being susceptible of a very 
sensible melody, our next inquiry should be, how this melodious 
structure is formed, what are the principles of it, and by what 
laws it is regulated ? And, upon this subject, were I to follow 
the ancient rhetoricians, it would be easy to give a great variety 




168 LECTURE XIII. 

of rules. For here they have entered into a very minute and 
particular detail, more particular, indeed, than on any other head 
that regards language. They hold, that to prose, as well as to 
verse, there belong certain numbers, less strict indeed, yet such 
as can be ascertained by rule. They go so far as to specify the 
feet, as they are called, that is, the succession of long and short 
syllables, which should enter into the different members of a sen- 
tence, and to show what the effect of each of these will be. 
Wherever they treat of the structure of sentences, it is always 
the music of them that makes the principal object. Cicero and 
Quintilian are full of this. The other qualities of precision, 
unity, and strength, which we consider as of chief importance, 
they handle slightly ; but when they come to the junctitra et 
numerus, the modulation and harmony, there they are copious. 
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, one of the most judicious critics of 
antiquity, has written a treatise on the Composition of Words in 
a Sentence, which is altogether confined to their musical effect. 
He makes the excellency of a sentence to consist in four things ; 
first, in the sweetness of single sounds ; secondly, in the compo- 
sition of sounds ; that is, the numbers or feet ; thirdly, in change 
for variety of sound ; and, fourthly, in sound suited to the sense. 
On all these points he writes with great accuracy and refinement 
and is very worthy of being consulted ; though, were one now to 
write a book on the structure of sentences, we should expect to 
find the subject treated'of in a more extensive manner. 

In modern times, this whole subject of the musical structure 
of discourse, it is plain, has been much less studied ; and, indeed, 
for several reasons, can be much less subjected to rule. The 
reasons it will be necessary to give, both to justify my not fol- 
lowing the track of the ancient rhetoricians on this subject, and 
to show how it has come to pass, that a part of composition, 
which once made so conspicuous a figure, now draws much less 
attention. 

In the first place, the ancient languages, I mean the Greek 
and the Roman, were much more susceptible than ours, of the 
graces and the powers of melody. The quantities of their 
syllables were more fixed and determined; their words were 
longer and more sonorous ; their method of varying the termi- 
nations of nouns and verbs, both introduced a greater variety of 
liquid sounds, and freed them from that multiplicity of little 
auxiliary words which we are obliged to employ ; and, what is 
of the greatest consequence, the inversions which their lan- 
guages allowed, gave them the power of placing their words in 



HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 150 

whatever order was most suited to a musical arrangement. All 
these were great advantages which they enjoyed above us, for 
harmony of period. 

Tn the next place, the Greeks and Romans, the former espe- 
cially, were, in truth, much more musical nations than we ; their 
genius was more turned to delight in the melody of speech. 
Music is known to have been a more extensive art among them 
than it is with us ; more generally studied, and applied to a 
greater variety of objects. Several learned men, particularly the 
Abbe du Bos, in his Reflections on Poetry and Painting, have 
clearly proved, that the theatrical compositions of the ancients, 
both their tragedies and comedies, were set to a kind of music. 
Whence, the Modos fecit, and the Tibiis dextris et simst?-is, pre- 
fixed to the editions of Terence's plays. All sort of declamation 
and public speaking was carried on by them in a much more 
musical tone than it is among us. It approached to a kind of 
chanting or recitative. Among the Athenians, there was what 
was called the Nomic melody ; or a particular measure pre- 
scribed to the public officers, in which they were to promulgate 
the laws to the people ; lest, by reading them with improper 
tones, the laws might be exposed to contempt. Among the Ro- 
mans there is a noted story of C. Gracchus, when he wa3 declaim- 
ing in public, having a musician standing at his back, in order 
to give him the proper tones with a pipe or flute. Even when 
pronouncing those terrible tribunitial harangues, by which he in- 
flamed the one half of the citizens of Rome against the other, 
this attention to the music of speech was, in those times, it 
seems, thought necessary to success. Quintilian, though he con- 
demns the excess of this sort of pronunciation, yet allows a 
cantus obscurior to be a beauty in a public speaker. Hence that 
variety of accents, acute, grave, and circumflex, which we find 
marked upon the Greek syllables, to express, not the quantity of 
them, but the tone in which they were to be spoken ; the appli- 
cation of which is now wholly unknown to us. And though the 
Romans did not mark those accents in their writing, yet it ap- 
pears, from Quintilian, that they used them in pronunciation : 
" Quantum quale," says he, " comparantes gravi, interrogantes 
acuto tenore concludunt." As music, then, was an object much 
more attended to in speech, among the Greeks and Romans, 
than it is with us ; as in all kinds of public speaking, they em- 
ployed a much greater variety of notes, of tones, or inflections 
of voice than we use - this is one clear reason of their paying 



100 LECTURE XIII. 

n. greater attention to that construction of sentences, which 
might best suit this musical pronunciation. 

It is further known, that, in consequence of the genius of 
their languages, and of their manner of pronouncing them, the 
musical arrangement of sentences did, in fact, produce a greater 
effect in public speaking among them, than it could possibly do 
in any modern oration ; another reason why it deserved to be 
more studied. Cicero, in his treatise entitled Orator, tells us, 
" Conciones soepe exclamare vidi, cum verba apte cecidissent. 
Id enim exspectant awes."* And he gives a remarkable instance 
of the effect of an harmonious period upon a whole assembly, 
from a sentence of one of Carbo's Orations, spoken in Ins 
hearing. The sentence was, " Patris dictum sapiens temeritas 
filii comprobravit." By means of the sound of which, alone, he 
tells us, " Tantus clamor concionis excitatus est, ut prorsus ad- 
mirabile esset." He makes us remark the feet of which these 
words consist, to which he ascribes the power of the melody ; 
and shows how, by altering the collocation, the whole effect 
would be lost, as thus : " Patris dictum sapiens comprobravit 
temeritas filii." Now, though it be true that Carbo's sentence is 
extremely musical, and would be agreeable, at this day, to 
an audience, yet I cannot believe that an English sentence, 
equally harmonious, would, by its harmony alone, produce any 
such effect on a British audience, or excite any such wonderful 
applause and admiration, as Cicero informs us this of Carbo 
produced. Our northern ears are too coarse and obtuse. The 
melody of speech has less power over us ; and by our 
simpler and plainer method of uttering words, speech is, in 
truth, accompanied with less melody than it was among the 
Greeks and Romans.f 

For these reasons, I am of opinion, that it is in vain to think 
of bestowing the same attention upon the harmonious structure 
of our sentences, that was bestowed by these ancient nations. 
The doctrine of the Greek and Roman critics, on this head, has 
misled some to imagine, that it might be equally applied to our 
tongue : and that our prose writing might be regulated by 

* " I have often been witness to bursts of exclamation in the public assem- 
blies, when sentences closed musically ; for that is a pleasure which the ear ex- 
pects." 

t " In versu, quidem theatra tota exclamant, si fuit una syllaba aut brevior 
ant longior. Nee veno multitudo uedes novit, nee ullos numeros tenet ; nee illud 
quod offendit, aut cur, aut in quo orTendat, intelligit ; et tamen omnium longitu- 
dinum et brevitatum in sonis, sicut acutarum gravinmque vocam, judicium ipsa 
Datura in atiribus nostiis collocavit." — Cicero, Orator, c. 51. 



HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 101 

spondees and trochees, and iambuses and paeons, and other 
metrical feet. But, first, our words cannot be measured, or, at 
least, can be measured, very imperfectly by any feet of this kind. 
For, the quantity, the length and shortness of our syllables, is 
far from being so fixed and subjected to rule, as in the Greek 
and Roman tongues ; but very often left arbitrary, and deter- 
mined by the emphasis, and the sense. Next, though our prose 
could admit of such metrical regulation, yet, from our plainer 
method of pronouncing all sorts of discourse, the effect would 
not be at all so sensible to the ear, nor be relished with so much 
pleasure, as among the Greeks and Romans : and, lastly this 
whole doctrine about the measures and numbers of prose, even 
as it is delivered by the ancient rhetoricians themselves, is, in, 
truth, in a great measure loose and uncertain. It appears, 
indeed, that the melody of discourse was a matter of infinitely 
more attention to them, than ever it has been to the moderns. 
But though they write a great deal about it, they have never 
been able to reduce it to any rules which could be of real use 
in practice. If we consult Cicero's Orator, where this point 
is discussed with the most minuteness, we shall see how much 
these ancient critics differed from one another, about the feet 
proper for the conclusion, and other parts of a sentence ; and 
how much, after all, was left to the judgment of the ear. Nor, 
indeed, is it possible to give precise rules concerning this matter, 
in any language ; as all prose composition must be allowed to 
run loose in its numbers ; and, according as the tenor of a 
discourse varies, the modulation of sentences must vary infi- 
nitely. 

But, although I apprehend that this musical arrangement 
cannot be reduced into a system, I am far from thinking that it 
is a quality to be neglected in composition. On the contrary, 
I hold its effect to be very considerable, and that every one 
who studies to write with grace, much more who seeks to pro- 
nounce in public, with success, will be obliged to attend to i A 
not a little. But it is his ear, cultivated by attention and 
practice, that must chiefly direct him. For any rules that 
can be given on this subject are very general. Some rules, 
however, there are, which may be of use to form the ear to the 
proper harmony of discourse. I proceed to mention such as 
appear to me most material. 

There are two things on which the music of a sentence 
chiefly depends. These are, the proper distribution of the 
several members of it ; and the close or cadence of the whole 

M 



1(J2 LECTURE XIII. 

First, 1 say, the distribution of the several members is to be 
carefully attended to. It is of importance to observe, that 
whatever is easy and agreeable to the organs of speech, always 
sounds grateful to the ear. While a period is going on, the 
termination of each of its members forms a pause, or rest, in 
pronouncing: and these rests should be so distributed, as to 
make the course of the breathing easy, and, at the same time, 
should fall at such distances, as to bear a certain musical 
proportion to each other. This will be best illustrated by 
examples. The following sentence is from Archbishop Tillot- 
son : " This discourse, concerning the easiness of God's com- 
mands, does, all along, suppose and acknowledge the difficulties 
of the first entrance upon a religious course ; except only in 
those persons who have had the happiness to be trained up 
to religion by the easy and insensible degrees of a pious and 
virtuous education." Here there is no harmony ; nay, there is 
some degree of harshness and unpleasantness ; owing principally 
to this, that there is, properly, no more than one pause, or rest, 
in the sentence, falling betwixt the two members into which it is 
divided; each of which is so long, as to occasion a considerable 
stretch of the breath in pronouncing it. 

Observe, now, on the other hand, the ease^ with which the 
following sentence, from Sir William Temple, glides along, and 
the graceful intervals at which the pauses are placed. He is 
speaking sarcastically of man : * But, God be thanked, his 
pride is greater than his ignorance, and what he wants in know- 
ledge, he supplies by sufficiency. When he has looked about 
him, as far as he can, he concludes there is no more to be 
seen ; when he is at the end of his line, he is at the bottom of 
the ocean ; when he has shot his best, he is sure none ever did, 
or ever can, shoot better or beyond it. His own reason he 
holds to be the certain measure of truth ; and his own know- 
ledge, of what is possible in nature."* Here every thing is, at 
once, easy to the breath, and grateful to the ear; and it is this 
sort of flowing measure, this regular and proportional division 

* Or this instance. — He is addressing himself to Lady Essex, upon the death 
of her child : " I was once in hope, that what was so violent could not be long : but, 
a hen I observed your grief to grow stronger wifti age, and to increase, axe a 
stream, the farther it ran ; when I saw it draw out to such unhappy consequences, 
and to threaten no less than your child, your health, and your life, I could no 
longer forbear this endeavour, nor end it, without begging of you, for God's sake, 
and for your own, for your children, and your friends, your country, and your 
family, that you would no longer abandon yourself to a disconsolate passion ; but 
that you would, at length, awaken your piety, give way to your prudence, or at 
least, rouse the invincible 3pirit of the Percys, that never shrunk at any disaster " 



HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 1«3 

of the members of his sentences, which renders Sir William 
Temple's style always agreeable. I must observe, at (he same 
time, that a sentence with too many rests, and these placed at 
intervals too apparently measured and regular, is apt to savour 
of affectation. 

The next thing to be attended to is, the close or cadence of 
the whole sentence, which, as it is always the part most sensible 
to the ear, demands the greatest care. So Quintilian ; " Non 
igitur durum sit, neque abruptum, quo animi, velut, respirant 
ac reficiuntur. Usee est sedes orationis ; hoc auditor expectat ; 
hie laus omnis declamat."* The only important rule that can 
be given here, is, that when we aim at dignity or elevation, the 
sound should be made to grow to the last ; the longest mem- 
bers of the period, and the fullest and most sonorous words, 
should be reserved to the conclusion. As an example of this, 
the following sentence of Mr. Addison's may be given : " It 
tills the mind (speaking of sight) with the largest variety of 
ideas ; converses with its objects at the greatest distance ; and 
continues the longest in action, without being tired or satiated 
with its proper enjoyments." Every reader must be sensible of 
a beauty here, both in the proper division of the members and 
pauses, and the manner in which the sentence is rounded, and 
conducted to a full and harmonious close. 

The same holds in melody, that I observed to take place 
with respect to significancy, that a falling-off at the end always 
hurts greatly. For this reason, particles, pronouns, and little 
words, are as ungracious to the ear, at the conclusion, as I for- 
merly showed they were inconsistent with strength of expres- 
sion. It is more than probable, that the sense and the sound 
have here a mutual influence on each other. That which hurts 
the ear, seems to mar the strength of the meaning ; and that 
which really degrades the sense, in consequence of this prim&ry 
effect, appears also to have a bad sound. How disagreeable h 
the following sentence of an author, speaking of the Trinity ! 
* It is a mystery which we firmly believe the truth of, and hum- 
bly adore the depth of." And how easily might it have been 
mended by this transposition ! K It is a mystery, the truth of 
which we firmly believe, and the depth of which we humbly 
adore." In general it seems to hold, that a musical close, in 

* " Let there be nothing harsh or abrupt in the conclusion of a sentence, on 
which the mind pauses and rests. This is the most material part in the structure 
ofdiscourse. Here every hearer expects to be gratified ; here his applause break* 
forth " 

M 2 



104 LECTURE XIII. 

our language, requires either the last syllable, or the last but 
one, to be a long syllable. Words which consist mostly of 
short syllables, as, contrary, particular, retrospect, seldom con- 
clude a sentence harmoniously, unless a run of long syllables, 
before, has rendered them agreeable to the ear. 

It is necessary, however, to observe, that sentences, so con- 
structed as to make the sound always swell and grow towards 
the end, and to rest either on a long or a penult long syllable, 
give a discourse the tone of declamation. The ear soon be- 
comes acquainted with the melody, and is apt to be cloyed with 
it. If we would keep up the attention of the reader or hearer, 
if we would preserve vivacity and strength in our composition, 
we must be very attentive to vary our measures. This regards 
the distribution of the members, as well as the cadence of the 
period. Sentences constructed in a similar manner, with the 
pauses falling at equal intervals, should never follow one 
another. Short sentences should be intermixed with long and 
swelling ones, to render discourse sprightly, as well as magnifi- 
cent. Even discords, properly introduced, abrupt sounds, de- 
partures from regular cadence, have sometimes a good effect. 
Monotony is the great fault into which writers are apt to fall, 
who are fond of harmonious arrangement : and to have only one 
tune, or measure, is not much better than having none at all. 
A very vulgar ear will enable a writer to catch some one 
melody, and to form the run of his sentences according to it, 
which soon proves disgusting. But a just and correct ear is 
requisite for varying and diversifying the melody, and hence we 
so seldom meet with authors who are remarkably happy in this 
respect. 

Though attention to the music of sentences must not be neg- 
lected, yet it must also be kept within proper bounds : for all 
appearances of an author's affecting harmony are disagreeable ; 
especially when the love of it betrays him so far, as to sacrifice, 
in any instance, perspicuity, precision, or strength of sentiment, 
to sound. All unmeaning words, introduced merely to round 
the period, or fill up the melody, complementa numerorum, as 
Cicero calls them, are great blemishes in writing. They are 
childish and puerile ornaments, by which a sentence always 
loses more in point of weight, than it can gain by such additions 
to the beauty of its souud. Sense has its own harmony, as well 
as sound; and, where the sense of a period is expressed with 
clearness, force, and dignity, it will seldom happen but the 
words will strike the ear agreeably ; at least, a very moderate 



HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 165 

attention is all that i? requisite for making the cadence of such a 
period pleasing : and the effect of greater attention is often no 
other, than to render composition languid and enervated. After 
all the labour which Quintilian bestows on regulating the mea- 
sures of prose,' he comes at last, with his usual good sense, to 
this conclusion : " In universum, si sit necesse, duram potius 
atque asperam compositionem malim esse, quam effeminatam ac 
enervem, qualis apud multos. Ideoque, vincta quaedam de 
industrial sunt solvenda, ne laborata videantur ; neque ullum 
idoneum aut aptum verbum praetermittamus, gratia lenitatis."* 
Lib. ix. c. 4, 142. 

Cicero, as I before observed, is one of the most remarkable 
patterns of a harmonious style. His love of it, however, is too 
visible ; and the pomp of his numbers sometimes detracts from 
his strength. That noted close of his, esse videatur, which, in 
the oration Pro Lege Manilia, occurs eleven times, exposed him 
to censure among his contemporaries. We must observe, how- 
ever, in defence of this great orator, that there is a remarkable 
union, in his style, of harmony with ease, which is always a 
great beauty ; and if his harmony be studied, that study appears 
to have cost him little trouble. 

Among our English classics, not many are distinguished for 
musical arrangement. Milton, in some of his prose works, has 
very finely turned periods ; but the writers of his age indulged a 
liberty of inversion, which now would be reckoned contrary to 
purity of style : and though this allowed their sentences to be 
more stately and sonorous, yet it gave them too much of a 
Latinised construction and order. Of later writers, Shaftesbury 
is, upon the whole, the most correct in his numbers. As his ear 
was delicate, he has attended to music in all his sentences ; and 
he is peculiarly happy in this respect, that he has avoided the 
monotony into which writers, who study the grace of sound, 
are very apt to fall, having diversified his periods with great 
variety * Mr. Addison has also much harmony in his style ; 
more easy and smooth, but less varied, than Lord Shaftesbury. 
Sir William Temple is, in general, very flowing and agreeable. 
Archbishop Tillotson is too often careless and languid ; and is 
much outdone by Bishop Atterbury in the music of his periods. 
Dean Swift despised musical arrangement altogether. 

* " Upon the whole, I would rather choose, that composition should appear 
rough and harsh, if that be necessary, than that it should be enervated and 
effeminate, such as we find the style of too many. Some sentences, therefore, 
which we have studiously formed into melody, should be thrown loose, that they 
may not seem too much laboured ; nor ought we ever to omit any proper or ex- 
pressive word, for the sake of smoothing a period." 



10G LECTURE XIII. 

Hitherto I have discoursed of agreeable sound, or modula- 
tion, in general. It yet remains to treat of a higher beauty of 
this kind ; the sound adapted to the sense. The former was no 
more than a simple accompaniment, to please the ear ; the latter 
supposes a peculiar expression given to the music. We may 
remark two degrees of it : first, the current of Sound, adapted 
to the tenour of a discourse : next, a particular resemblance 
effected between some object, and the sounds that are employed 
in describing it. 

First, I say, the current of sound may be adapted to the 
tenour of a discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a cor- 
respondence with our ideas ; partly natural, partly the effect of 
artificial associations. Hence it happens, that any one modu- 
lation of sound continued, imprints on our style a certain cha- 
racter and expression. Sentences constructed with the Ciceronian 
fulness and swell, produce the impression of what is important, 
magnificent, sedate ; for this is the natural tone which such a 
course of sentiment assumes. But they suit no violent passion, 
no eager reasoning, no familiar address. These always require 
measures brisker, easier, and often more abrupt. And, there- 
fore, to swell, or to let down the periods, as the subject demands, 
is a very important rule in oratory. No one tenour whatever, 
supposing it to produce no bad effect from satiety, will answer 
to all different compositions ; nor even to all the part3 of the 
same composition. It were as absurd to write a panegyric, and 
an invective, in a style of the same cadence, as to set the words 
of a tender love-song to the air of a warlike march. 

Observe how finely the following sentence of Cicero is 
adapted, to represent the tranquillity and ease of a satisfied 
state : " Etsi homini nihil est magis optandum, quam prospera, 
ftquabilis, perpetuaque fortuna, secundo vitas sine ulla offen- 
sione cursu ; tamen, si rnihi tranquilla et placata omnia fuissent, 
incredibili quadam et paene divina, qua nunc vestro beneficio 
fruor, laetitise voluptate caruissem."* Nothing was ever more 
perfect in its kind : it paints, if we may so speak, to the ear. 
But who would not have laughed, if Cicero had employed such 
periods, or such a cadence as this, in inveighing against Mark 
Antony, or Catiline ? What is requisite, therefore, is, that we 
previously fix in our mind a just idea of the general tone of 
sound which suits our subject ; that is, which the sentiments we 
are to express, most naturally assume, and in which they most 

* Orat. ad Quiritts, post Reditum. 



HARMONY OF SENTENCES. KJ7 

commonly vent themselves ; whether round and smooth, or 
stately and solemn, or brisk and quick, or interrupted and 
abrupt. This general idea must direct the modulation of our 
periods : to speak in the style of music, must give us the key 
note, must form the ground of the melody; varied and diversified 
in parts, according as either our sentiments are diversified, or as 
is requisite for producing a suitable variety to gratify the ear. 

It may be proper to remark, that our translators of the Bible 
have often been happy in suiting their numbers to the subject. 
Grave, solemn, and majestic subjects undoubtedly require such 
an arrangement of words as runs much on long syllables ; and, 
particularly, they require the close to rest upon such. The 
very first verses of the Bible are remarkable for this melody : 
" In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth : and 
the earth was without form, and void ; and darkness was upon 
the face of the deep ; and the Spirit of God moved upon the 
face of the waters." Several other passages, particularly some 
of the Psalms, afford striking examples of this sort of grave, 
melodious construction. Any composition that rises considerably 
above the ordinary tone of prose, such as monumental inscrip- 
tions, and panegyrical characters, naturally runs into numbers 
of this kind. 

But, in the next place, besides the general correspondence 
of the current of sound with the current of thought, there may 
be a more particular expression attempted, of certain objects, 
by means of resembling sounds. This can be, sometimes, 
accomplished in prose composition ; but there only in a more 
faint degree ; nor is it so much expected there. In poetry, 
chiefly, it is looked for ; where attention to sound is more 
demanded, and where the inversions and liberties of poetical 
style give us a greater command of sound ; assisted, too, by 
the versification, and that cantus obscurior, to which we are 
naturally led in reading poetry. This requires a little more 
illustration. 

The sounds of words may be employed for representing, 
chiefly, three classes of objects ; first, other sounds ; secondly, 
motion ; and, thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind. 

First, I say, by a proper choice of words, we may produce a 
resemblance of other sounds which we mean to describe ; such 
as, the noise of waters, the roaring of winds, or the murmuring 
of streams. This is the simplest instance of this sort of beauty. 
For the medium through which we imitate, here, is a natural 
one ; sounds represented by other sounds ; and between ideas 



1G8 LECTURE XIII. 

of the same sense, it is easy to form a connection. No verj 
great art is required in a poet, when he is describing sweet and 
soft sounds, to make use of such words as have most liquids and 
vowels, and glide the softest ; or, when he is describing harsh 
sounds, to throw together a number of harsh syllables which are 
of difficult pronunciation. Here the common structure of lan- 
guage assists him ; for; it will be found, that, in most languages, 
the names of many particular sounds are so formed, as to carry 
some affinity to the sound which they signify, as with us, the 
whistling of winds, the buz and hum of insects, the hiss of ser- 
pents, the crash of falling timber ; and many other instances, 
where the word has been plainly framed upon the sound it re- 
presents. I shall produce a remarkable example of this beauty 
from Milton, taken from two passages in Paradise Lost, de- 
scribing the sound made, in the one, by the opening of the gates 
of hell ; in the other, by the opening of those of heaven. The 
contrast between the two, displays, to great advantage, the poet's 
art. The first is the opening of hell's gates : 



-On a suddeu, open fly, 



With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound, 

Th' infernal doors ; and on their hinges grate 

Harsh thunder. — — Book i. 

Observe, now, the smoothness of the other : 

-Heaven opened wide 



Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound; 

On golden hinges turning. Book ii. 

The following beautiful passage from Tasso's Gierusalemme, has 
been often admired, on account of the imitation effected by sound 
of the thing represented : 

Chiama gli habitator de l'ombre eterne 

II rauco suon de la Tartarea tromba : 

Treraan le spaciose atre caverne, 

Et l'aer cieco a quel rumor rimbomba ; 

Ni stridendo cosi de la superne 

Regioni dele cielo, il folgor piomba ; 

Ne si scossa giammai la terra, 

Quand i vapori in sen gravida serra.— — Cant. iv. Stanz. 4. 

The second class of objects, which the sound of words is 
often employed to imitate, is motion ; as it is swift or slow, 
violent or gentle, equable or interrupted, easy or accompanied 
with effort. Though there be no natural affinity between sound, 
of any kind, and motion, yet, in the imagination, there is a 
strong one ■ as appears from the connection between music and 



HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 180 

dancing. And, therefore, here it is in the poet's power to give 
us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would describe, by- 
means of sounds which correspond, in our imagination, with that 
motion. Long syllables naturally give the impression of slow 
motion ; as in this line of Virgil : 

Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. iEn. viii. 452. 

A succession of short syllables presents quick motion to the 
mind; as, 

Qiiadrnpedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum. — iEn. viii. 596. 

Both Homer and Virgil are great masters of this beauty, 
and their works abound with instances of it ; most of them, 
indeed, so often quoted, and so well known, that it is needless 
to produce them. I shall give one instance, in English, which 
seems happy. It is the description of a sudden calm on the seas, 
in a poem entitled The Fleece. 



-With easy course 



The vessels glide ; unless their speed be stopp'd 
By dead calms, that oft lie on these smooth seas 
When every zephyr sleeps; then the shrouds drop ; 
The downy feather on the cordage hung 
Moves not ; the flat sea shines like yellow gold 
Fus'd in the fire, or like the marble floor 
Of some old temple wide. 

The third set of objects, which I mentioned the sound of 
words as capable of representing, consists of the passions and 
emotions of the mind. Sound may, at first view, appear foreign 
to these ; but that here, also, there is some sort of connection, 
is sufficiently proved by the power which music has to awaken 
or to assist certain passions, and, according as its strain is 
varied, to introduce one train of ideas, rather than another 
This, indeed, logically speaking, cannot be called a resemblance 
between the sense and the sound, seeing long or short syllables 
have no natural resemblance to any thought or passion. But if 
the arrangement of syllables, by their sound alone, recal one 
set of ideas more readily than another, and dispose the mind 
for entering into that affection which the poet means to raise, 
such arrangement may, justly enough, be said to resemble the 
sense, or be similar and correspondent to it. I admit, that in 
many instances, which are supposed to display this beauty of 
accommodation of sound to the sense, there is much room for 
imagination to work; and, according as the reader is struck by a 
passage, he will often fancy a resemblance between the sound 



170 LECTURE XIV. 

and the sense, which others cannot discover. He modulates the 
numbers to his own disposition of mind ; and, in effect, makes 
the music which he imagines himself to hear. However, that 
there are real instances of this kind, and that poetry is capable 
of some such expression, cannot be doubted. Dryden's Ode on 
St. Cecilia's Day, affords a very beautiful exemplification of it, 
in the English language. Without much study or reflection, a 
poet describing pleasure, joy, and agreeable objects, from the 
feeling of his subject, naturally runs into smooth, liquid, and 
flowing: numbers. 



'e> 



-Namque ipsa decoram 



Caesariem nato genetrix, lumenque juventae 
Perpureum, et laetos oculis afflarat honores. — Mi), i. 5S!>. 



Or, 



Devenere locos laetos, et amoena vireta 

Fortunatoruin nemorum, sedesque beatas ; 

Largior hie campos aether et lumine vestit 

Purpureo ; solemque suum, sua sidera norant. — jEn. vi. 638. 

Brisk and lively sensations exact quicker and more animated 
numbers. 



-Juvenum manus emicat ardens 



Litus in Hesperiuin. ./En. vi. 5. 

Melancholy and gloomy subjects naturally express themselves in 
slow measures, and long words : 

In those deep solitudes and awful cells, 
Where heavenly pensive Contemplation dwells. 

Et caligantem nigra formidine lucum. — Georg. iv. 468. 

I have now given sufficient openings into this subject: a 
moderate acquaintance with the good poets, either ancient or 
modern, will suggest many instances of the same kind. And 
with this, I finish the discussion of the structure of sentences ; 
having fully considered them under all the heads I mentioned 
of perspicuity, unity, strength, and musical arrangement. 



LECTURE XIV. 

ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 

Having now finished what related to the construction of 
sentences, 1 proceed to other rules concerning style. My gene- 
ral division of the qualities of style, was into perspicuity and or- 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 171 

nament. Perspicuity, both in single words and in sentences, I 
have considered. Ornament, as far as it arises from a graceful, 
strong, or melodious construction of words, has also been 
treated of. Another, and a great branch of the ornament of 
style, is, figurative language ; which is now to be the subject of 
our consideration, and will require a full discussion. 

Our first inquiry must be, What is meant by figures of 
speech ?* 

In general, they always imply some departure from sim- 
plicity of expression ; the idea which we intend to convey, not 
only enunciated to others, but enunciated in a particular manner, 
and with some circumstance added, which is designed to render 
the impression more strong and vivid. When I say, for in- 
stance, " That a good man enjoys comfort in the midst of adver- 
sity ;" I just express my thought in the simplest manner possi- 
ble But when I say, " To the upright there ariseth light in 
darkness ;" the same sentiment is expressed in a figurative 
style ; a new circumstance is introduced ; light 13 put in the 
place of comfort, and darkness is used to suggest the idea of 
adversity. In the same manner, to say, " It is impossible, by 
any search we can make, to explore the divine nature fully," is 
to make a simple proposition. But when we say, " Canst thou, 
by searching, find out God ? Canst thou find out the Almighty 
to perfection ? It is high as heaven, what canst thou do ? deeper 
than hell, what canst thou know ?" This introduces a figure 
into style ; the proposition being not only expressed, but admi- 
ration and astonishment being expressed together with it. 

But, though figures imply a deviation from what may be 
reckoned the most simple form of speech, we are not thence to 
conclude, that they imply any thing uncommon, or unnatural. 
This is so far from being the case, that on very many occasions 
they are both the most natural, and the most common method 
of uttering our sentiments. It is impossible to compose any 
discourse without using them often ; nay, there are few sen- 
tences of any length, in which some expression or other, that 
may be termed a figure, does not occur. From what causes this 
happens, shall be afterwards explained. The fact, in the mean 

* On the subject of figures of speech, all the writers who treat of rhetoric or 
composition, have insisted largely. To make references, therefore, on this sub- 
ject, were endless. On the foundations of figurative language, in general, one of 
the most sensible and instructive writers appears to me to be M. Marsais, in hi» 
fmiti des Tropes pour servir d' Introduction d. la Rhttorique, et & la Logiqite. For ob- 
servations, on particular figures, the Elements of Criticism may be consulted, 
where the subject is fully handled, and illustrated by a great variety ot 
examples. 



172 LECTURE XIV. 

time, shows that they are to be accounted part of that language 
which nature dictates to men. They are not the inventions of 
the schools, nor the mere product of study : on the contrary, 
the most illiterate speak in figures, as often as the most learned. 
Whenever the imaginations of the vulgar are much awakened* 
or their passions inflamed against one another, they will pour 
forth a torrent of figurative language, as forcible as could be em- 
ployed by the most artificial declaimer. 

What then is it, which has drawn the attention of critics 
and rhetoricians so much to these forms of speech ? It is this : 
they remarked, that in them consists much of the beauty and 
the force of language ; and found them always to bear some 
characters, or distinguishing marks, by the help of which they 
could reduce them under separate classes and heads. To this, 
perhaps, they owe their name of figures. As the figure or 
shape of one body distinguishes it from another, so these forms 
of speech have, each of them, a cast or turn peculiar to itself, 
which both distinguishes it from the rest, and distinguishes it 
from simple expression. Simple expression just makes our idea 
known to others ; but figurative language, over and above, be- 
stows a particular dress upon that idea ; a dress which both 
makes it to be remarked, and adorns it. Hence, this sort of 
language' became early a capital object of attention to* those who 
studied the powers of speech. 

Figures, in general, may be described to be that language, 
which is prompted either by the imagination, or by the passions. 
The justness of this description will appear, from the more par- 
ticular account I am afterwards to give of them. Rhetoricians 
commonly divide them into two great classes ; figures of words, 
and figures of thought. The former, figures of words, are com- 
monly called tropes, and consist in a word's being employed 
to signify something that is different from its original and primi- 
tive meaning ; so that if you alter the word, you destroy the 
figure. Thus, in the instance I gave before ; " Light ariseth to 
the upright in darkness." The trope consists in " light and 
darkness," being not meant literally, but substituted for comfort 
and adversity, on account of same resemblance or analogy which 
they are supposed to bear to these conditions of life. The other 
class, termed figures of thought, supposes the words to be used 
in their proper and literal meaning, and the figure to consist in 
the turn of the thought ; as is the case in exclamations, interro- 
gations, apostrophes, and comparisons ; where, though Yj ° & ""^ 
the words that are used, or translate them from r ° '» e 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 173 

into another, you may, nevertheless, still preserve the same figure 
in the thought. This distinction, however, is of no great use ; 
as nothing can be built upon it in practice ; neither is it always 
very clear. It is of little importance whether we give to some 
particular mode of expression the name of a trope, or of a figure ; 
provided we remember, that figurative language always imports 
some colouring of the imagination, or some emotion of passion, 
expressed in our style : and, perhaps, figures of imagination, 
and figures of passion, might be a more useful distribution of the 
subject. But, without insisting on any artificial divisions, it 
will be more useful, that I inquire into the origin and the nature 
of figures. Only, before I proceed to this, there are two general 
observations which it may be proper to premise. 

The first is, concerning the use of rules with respect to figu- 
rative language. I admit, that persons may both speak and 
write with propriety who know not the names of any of the figures 
of speech, nor ever studied any rules relating to them. Nature, 
as was before observed, dictates the use of figures ; and, like 
Mons. Jourdain, in Moliere, who had spoken for forty years in 
prose, without ever knowing it ; many a one uses metaphorical 
expressions to good purpose, without any idea of what a meta- 
phor is. It will not, however, follow thence, that rules are of no 
service. All science arises from observations on practice. 
Practice has always gone before method and rule ; but method 
and rule have afterwards improved and perfected practice, in 
every art. We every day meet with persons who sing agree- 
ably, without knowing one note of the gamut. Yet it has been 
found of importance to reduce these notes to a scale, and to form 
an art of music ; and it would be ridiculous to pretend, that the 
art is of no advantage, because the practice is founded in nature. 
Propriety and beauty of speech are certainly as improveable as 
the ear or the voice ; and to know the principles of this beauty, 
or the reasons which render one figure, or one manner of speech, 
preferable to another, cannot fail to assist and direct a proper 
choice. 

But I must observe, in the next place, that, although this 
part of style merits attention, and is a very proper object of 
science and rule ; although much of the beauty of composition 
depends on figurative language ; yet we must beware of imagi- 
ning that it depends solely, or even chiefly, upon such language. 
It is not so. The great place which the doctrine of tropes and 
figures has occupied in systems of rhetoric ; the over-anxious 
care which has been shewn in giving names to a vast variety of 



174 LECTURE XTV. 

them, and in ranging them under different classes, has often led 
persons to imagine, that if their composition was well bespan- 
gled with a number of these orname.'iJs of speech, it wanted no 
other beauty ; whence has arisen much stiffness and affectation. 
For it is, in truth, the sentiment or passion, which lies under the 
figured expression, that gives it any merit. The figure is only 
the dress : the sentiment is the body and the substance. No fi- 
gures will render a cold or an empty composition interesting ; 
whereas, if a sentiment be sublime or pathetic, it can support 
itself perfectly well, without any borrowed assistance. Hence 
several of the most affecting and admired passages of the best 
authors, are expressed in the simplest language. The following 
sentiment from Virgil, for instance, makes its way at once to the 
heart, without the help of any figure whatever. He is des- 
cribing an Argive, who falls in battle, in Italy, at a great dis 
tance from his native country. 

Sternitur infelix alieno vulnere, ccelumque 
Adspicit, et dukes moriens reminiscitur Argos • 

JEn. x. 781. 

A single stroke of this kind, drawn as by the very pencil of na 
ture, is worth a thousand figures. In the same manner, the 
simple style of Scripture : " He spoke, and it was done ; he 
commanded, and it stood fast." — " God said, Let there be light, 
and there was light ;" imparts a lofty conception to much great. 
er advantage, than if it had been decorated by the most pompous 

* " Anthares had from Argos travell'd far, 
Alcides' friend, and brother of the war ; 
Now falling, by another's wound, his eyes 
He casts to heaven, on Argos thinks, and dies." 

In this translation, much of the beauty of the original is lost. " On Argos 
thinks, and dies," is by no means equal to " dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos :" 
" As he dies, he remembers his beloved Argos." It is indeed observable, that in 
most of those tender and pathetic passages, which do so much honour to Virgil, 
that great poet expresses himself with the utmost simplicity 5 as, 

Te, dulcis conjux, te solo in litore secum, 
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat. — Georg. iv. 405. 

And so in that moving prayer of Evander, upon his parting with his son 
Pallas : 

At vos, O snperi, et Divum tu maxime rector 
Jupiter, Arcadii quaeso, miserescite regis, 
Et patrias audite preces. Si numina vestra 
Incolumem Pallanta mihi, si fata reservant, • 
Si visurus eum vivo, et venturus in unum : 
Vitam oro ; patiar quemvis durare laborem ; 
Sin aliquem infandum casum, Fortuna, minaris ; 
Nunc, O nunc liceat crudelem abrumpere vitam. 



11GURATIVE LANGUAGE. 175 

metaphors. The fact is, that the strong pathetic, and the pure 
sublime, not only have little dependence on figures of speech, 
but, generally, reject them. The proper region of these orna- 
ments is, where a moderate degree of elevation and passion is 
predominant ; and there they contribute to the embellishment of 
discourse, only, when there is a basis of solid thought and na- 
tural sentiment ; when they are inserted in their proper place > 
and when they rise, of themselves, from the subject, without be- 
ing sought after. 

Having premised these observations, I proceed to give an 
account of the origin and nature of figures ; principally of such 
as have their dependence on language ; including that numerous 
tribe, which the rhetoricians call tropes. 

At the first rise of language, men would begin with giving 
names to the different objects which they discerned or thought 
of. This nomenclature would, at the beginning, be veiy narrow. 
According as men's ideas multiplied, and their acquaintance 
with objects increased, their stock of names and words would 
increase also. But to the infinite variety of objects and ideas no 
language is adequate. No language is so copious, as to have a 
separate word for every separate idea. Men naturally sought to 
abridge this labour of multiplying words in infinitum; and, in v 
order to lay less burden on their memories, made one word, 
which they had already appropriated to a certain idea or 
object, stand also for some other idea or object; between 
which and the primary one, they found, or fancied, some relation. 
Thus, the preposition, in, was originally invented to express the 
circumstance of place : a The man was killed in the wood." 
In progress of time, words were wanted to express men's being 
connected with certain conditions of fortune, or certain situations 
of mind ; and some resemblance, or analogy, being fancied be- 
tween these, and the place of bodies, the word, in, was employed 
to express men's being so circumstanced; as, one's being in 
health or in sickness, in prosperity or in adversity, in joy or in 
grief, in doubt, or in danger, or in safety. Here we see this 
preposition, in, plainly assuming a tropical signification, or 
carried off* from its original meaning, to signify something else, 
which relates to, or resembles it. 

Tropes of this kind abound in all languages ; and are plainly 
owing to the want of proper words. The operations of the 

Dam curae ambiguse, dum spes incerta futuri, 
Dam te, care puer, mea sera et sola voluptas, 
Coinplexu teneo ; gravior ne nuntius aures 
Vulneret Mxi, viii. 572. 






17« LECTURE XIV. 

mind and affections, in particular, are, in most languages, 
described by words taken from sensible objects. The reason is 
plain. The names of sensible objects were, in all languages, 
the words most early introduced ; and were, by degrees, ex- 
tended to those mental objects, of which men had more obscure 
conceptions, and to which they found it more difficult to assign 
distinct names. They borrowed, therefore, the name of some 
sensible idea, where their imagination found some affinity. Thus 
we speak of a piercing judgment, and a clear head ; a soft or a 
hard heart ; a rough or a smooth behaviour. We say, inflamed 
by anger, warmed by love, swelled with pride, melted into grief ; 
and these are almost the only significant words which we have 
for such ideas. 

But, although the barrenness of language, and the want of 
words, be doubtless one cause of the invention of tropes ; yet it \ 
is not the only, nor, perhaps, even the principal source of this 
form of speech. Tropes have arisen more frequently, and spread 
themselves wider, from the influence which imagination possesses 
over language. The train on which this has proceeded among 
all nations, I shall endeavour to explain. 

Every object which makes any impression on the human 
mind, is constantly accompanied with certain circumstances and 
relations, that strike us at the same time. It never presents it- 
self to our view, isole, as the French express it ; that is, inde- 
pendent on, and separated from, every other thing ; but always 
occurs as somehow related to other objects ; going before them, 
or following them ; their effect or their cause ; resembling them, 
or opposed to them ; distinguished by certain qualities, or sur- 
rounded with certain circumstances. By this means, every idea 
or object carries in its train some other ideas, which may be 
considered as its accessories. These accessories often strike 
the imagination more than the principal idea itself. They are, 
perhaps, more agreeable ideas ; or they are more familiar to our 
conceptions ; or they recal to our memory a greater variety of 
important circumstances. The imagination is more disposed to 
rest upon some of them ; and therefore, instead of using the 
proper name of the principal idea which it means to express, it 
employs, in its place, the name of the accessory or correspondent 
idea ; although the principal have a proper and well-known 
name of its own. Hence a vast variety of tropical or figurative 
words obtain currency in all languages, through choice, not 
necessity ; and men of lively imaginations are every day adding 
to their number. 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 177 

Thus, when we design to intimate the period at which a state 
enjoyed most reputation or glory, it were easy to employ the 
proper words for expressing this ; but as this is readily con - 
nected, in our imagination, with the flourishing period of a plant 
or a tree, we lay hold of this correspondent idea, and say, " The 
Roman empire flourished most under Augustus." The leader of 
a faction is plain language ; but, because the head is the princi- 
pal part of the human body, and is supposed to direct all the 
animal operations, resting upon this resemblance, we say, " Cati- 
line was the head of the party." The word, voice, was originally 
invented to signify the articulate sound, formed by the organs 
of the mouth ; but, as by means of it men signify their ideas and 
their intentions to each other, voice soon assumed a great many 
other meanings, all derived from this primary effect. " To give 
our voice" for any thing, signified, to give our sentiment in 
favour of it. Not only so ; but voice was transferred to signify 
any intimation of will or judgment, though given without the 
least interposition of voice in its literal sense, or any sound 
uttered at all. Thus we speak of listening to the voice of con- 
science, the voice of nature, the voice of God. This usage takes 
place, not so much from barrenness of language, or want of a 
proper word, as from an allusion which we choose to make to 
voice, in its primary sense, in order to convey our idea, con- 
nected with a circumstance which appears to the fancy to give 
it more sprightliness and force. 

The account which I have now given, and which seems to 
be a full and fair one, of the introduction of tropes into all lan- 
guages, coincides with what Cicero briefly hints in his third 
book de Oratore. " Modus transferendi verba late patet ; quern 
necessitas primum genuit, coactainopia et angustiis; post autem 
delectatio jucunditasque celebravit. Nam ut vestis, frigoris 
depellendi causa reperta primo, post adhiberi cospta est ad 
ornatum etiam corporis et dignitatem, sic verbi translatio 
instituta est inopiae causa, frequentata, delectationis."* 

From what has been said it clearly appears, how that must 
come to pass, which I had occasion to mention in a former lec- 
ture, that all languages are most figurative in their early state, j 
Both the causes to which I ascribed the origin of figures, concur 
in producing this effect at the beginnings of society. Language 

* " The figurative usage of words is very extensive ; a usage to which neces- 
sity first gave rise, on account of the paucity of words, and barrenness of lan- 
guage ; but which the pleasure that was found in it afterwards rendered frequent. 
For, as garments were first contrived to defend our bodies from the cold, and 
afterwards were employed for the purpose of ornament and dignity, so figures 
of speech, introduced by want, were cultivated for the sake of entertainment " 

N 



178 LECTURE XIV. 

is then most barren ; the stock of proper names which have been 
invented for things, is small ; and, at the same time, imagination 
exerts great influence over the conceptions of men, and their 
method of uttering them ; so that, both from necessity and 
from choice, their speech will, at that period, abound in tropes. 
For the savage tribes of men are always much given to wonder 
and astonishment. Every new object surprises, terrifies, and 
makes a strong impression on their mind ; they are governed by 
imagination and passion more than by reason ; and, of course, 
their speech must be deeply tinctured by their genius. In fact, 
we find, that this is the character of the American and Indian 
languages ; bold, picturesque, and metaphorical ; full of strong 
allusions to sensible qualities, and to such objects as struck 
them most in their wild and solitary life. An Indian chief makes 
a harangue to his tribe, in a style full of stronger metaphors 
than an European would use in an epic poem. 

As language makes gradual progress towards refinement, 
almost every object comes to have a proper name given to it, 
and perspicuity and precision are more studied. But, still, for 
the reasons before given, borrowed words, or, as rhetoricians 
call them, tropes, must continue to occupy a considerable place. 
In every language, too, there are a multitude of words, which, 
though they were figurative in their first application to certain 
objects, yet, by long use, lose that figurative power wholly, and 
come to be considered as simple and literal expressions. In 
this case are the terms which I remarked before, as transferred 
from sensible qualities to the operations or qualities of the 
mind, a piercing judgment, a clear head, a hard heart, and the 
like. There are other words which remain in a sort of middle 
state; which have neither lost wholly their figurative application, 
nor yet retain so much of it, as to imprint any remarkable cha- 
racter of figured language on our style; such as these phrases, 
" apprehend one's meaning ;" " enter on a subject ;" " folloAv 
out an argument ;" " stir up strife ;" and a great many more, of 
which our language is full. In the use of such phrases, correct 
writers will always preserve a regard to the figure or allusion on 
which they are founded, and will be careful not to apply them in 
any way that is inconsistent with it. One may be " sheltered 
under the patronage of a great man ;" but it were wrong to say, 
* sheltered under the mask of dissimulation ;" as a mask con- 
ceals, but does not shelter. An object, in description, may be 
" clothed," if you will, " with epithets ;" but it is not so proper 
V> speak of its being " clothed with circumstances ;" as the word 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 179 

" circumstances" alludes to standing round, not to clothing. 
Such attentions as these, to the propriety of language, are requi- 
site in every composition. 

What has been said on this subject, tends to throw light on 
the nature of language in general ; and will lead to the reasons, 
why tropes or figures contribute to the beauty and grace of 
style 

First; they enrich language, and render it more copious 
By their means, words and phrases are multiplied for expressing 
all sorts of ideas ; for describing even the minutest differences ; 
the nicest shades and colours of thought ; which no language 
could possibly do by proper words alone, without assistance 
from tropes. 

Secondly ; they bestow dignity upon style. The familiarity 
of common words, to which our ears are much accustomed, tends 
to degrade style. When we want to adapt our language to the 
tone of an elevated subject, we should be greatly at a loss, if we 
could not borrow assistance from figures ; which, properly em- 
ployed, have a similar effect on language, with what is produced 
by the rich and splendid dress of a person of rank ; to create 
respect, and to give an air of magnificence to him who wears it. 
Assistance of this kind is often needed in prose compositions ; 
but poetry could not subsist without it. Hence figures form the 
constant language of poetry. To say, that " the sun rises," is 
trite and common ; but it becomes a magnificent image when 
expressed, as Mr. Thomson has done : 

But yonder comes the powerful kinp of day 
Rejoicing in the east. 

To say, that " all men are subject alike to death," presents only 
a vulgar idea; but it rises and fills the imagination, when painted 
thus by Horace. 



Or, 



Or, 



Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, 
Regumque tnrres. 

Omnes eodem cogimur : omnium 
Versatur urna serius ocius 
Sors exitura, et nos in eternum 

Exsilium impositura cymbae.* — L. ii. Od. iii. 

* With equal pace, impartial fate 
Knocks at the palace, as the cottage gate. 

We all must tread the paths of fate; 

And ever shakes the mortal urn.; 
Whose lot embarks us, soon or late, 

On Charon's boat ; ah ! never to return.— Francis 

N 2 



180 LECTURE XIV. 

In the third place, figures give us the pleasure of enjoying 
two objects presented together to our view, without confusion , 
the principal idea, which is the subject of the discourse, along 
with its accessory, which gives it the figurative dress. We see 
one thing in another, as Aristotle expresses it ; which is always 
agreeable to the mind. For there is nothing with which the 
fancy is more delighted, than with comparisons, and resem- 
blances of objects ; and all tropes are founded upon some relation 
or analogy between one thing and another. When, for instance, 
in place of " youth," I say, the " morning of life ;" the fancy is 
immediately entertained with all the resembling circumstances 
which presently occur between these two objects. At one mo- 
ment, I have in my eye a certain period of human life, and a 
certain time of the day, so related to each other, that the ima- 
gination plays between them with pleasure, and contemplates 
two similar objects, in one view, without embarrassment or con- 
fusion. Not only so, but, 

In the fourth place, figures are attended with this further 
advantage, of giving us frequently a much clearer and more 
striking view of the principal object, than we could have if it 
were expressed in simple terms, and divested of its accessory 
idea. This is, indeed, their principal advantage, in virtue of 
which, they are very properly said to illustrate a subject, or to 
throw light upon it. For they exhibit the object, on which 
they are employed, in a picturesque form ; they can render an 
abstract conception, in yome degree, an object of sense ; they 
suriound it with such circumstances, as enable the mind to lay 
hold of it steadily, and to contemplate it fully. K Those persons," 
says one, " who gain the hearts of most people, who are chosen 
as the companions of their softer hours, and their reliefs from 
anxiety and care, are seldom persons of shining qualities, or 
strong virtues : it is rather the soft green of the soul, on which 
we rest our eyes, that are fatigued with beholding more glaring 
objects." Here, by a happy allusion to a colour, the whole 
conception is conveyed clear and strong, to the mind in one 
word. By a well chosen figure, even conviction is assisted, 
and the impression of a truth upon the mind, made more lively 
and forcible than it would otherwise be. As in the following 
illustration of Dr. Young's : " When we dip too deep in pleasure, 
we always stir a sediment that renders it impure and noxious :" 
or in this, " A heart boiling with violent passions, will always 
send up infatuating fumes to the head." An image that pre- 
sents so much congruity between a moral and a sensible idea, 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 1B1 

serves, like an argument from analogy, to enforce what the 
author asserts, and to induce belief. 

Besides, whether we are endeavouring to raise sentiments 
of pleasure or aversion, we can always heighten the emotion by 
the figures which we introduce ; leading the imagination to a 
train, either of agreeable or disagreeable, of exalting or debasing 
ideas, correspondent to the impression which we seek to make 
When we want to render an object beautiful or magnificent 
we borrow images from all the most beautiful or splendid scenes 
of nature ; we thereby naturally throw a lustre over our object ; 
we enliven the reader's mind, and dispose him to go along with 
us, in the gay and pleasing impressions. which we give him of 
the subject. This effect of figures is happily touched in the 
following lines of Dr. Akenside, and illustrated by a very sub- 
lime figure : 

Then the inexpressive strain 

Diffuses its enchantment. Fanc> dreams 

Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves, 

And vales of bliss. The intellectual power 

Bends from his awful throne a wond'ring ear, 

And smiles. Pleas, of Imaginat. i. 124. 

What 1 have now explained, concerning the use and effects 
of figures, naturally leads us to reflect on the wonderful power 
of language ; and, indeed, we cannot reflect on it without the 
highest admiration. What a fine vehicle is it now become for 
all the conceptions of the human mind ; even for the most subtile 
and delicate workings of the imagination ! What a pliant and 
flexible instrument in the hand of one who can employ it skil- 
fully ; prepared to take every form which he chooses to give it ! 
Not content with a simple communication of ideas and thoughts, 
it paints those ideas to the eye ; it gives colouring and relievo, 
even to the most abstract conceptions. In the figures which it 
uses, it sets mirrors before us, where we may behold objects, a 
second time, in their likeness. It entertains us, as with a suc- 
cession of the most splendid pictures ; disposes, in the most 
artificial manner, of the light and shade, for viewing every thing 
to the best advantage ; in fine, from being a rude and imperfect 
interpreter of men's wants and necessities, it has now passed into 
an instrument of the most delicate and refined luxury. 

To make these effects of figurative language sensible, there 
are few authors in the English language, whom I can refer to 
with more advantage than Mr. Addison, whose imagination is, 
at once, remarkably rich, and remarkably correct and chasis 



182 LECTURE XIV. 

When he is treating, for instance, of the effect which light and 
colours have to entertain the fancy, considered in Mr. Locke's 
view of them as secondary qualities, which have no real exist- 
ence in matter, but are only ideas in the mind, with what beau- 
tiful painting has he adorned this philosophic speculation ! 
* Things," says he, u would make but a poor appearance to the 
eye, if we saw them only in their proper figures and motions. 
Now, we are every where entertained with pleasing shows and 
apparitions ; we discover imaginary glories in the heavens, and 
in the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured out 
upon the whole creation. But what a rough unsightly sketch 
of nature should we be entertained with, did all her colouring 
disappear, and the several distinctions of light and shade vanish? 
In short, our souls are, at present, delightfully lost, and be- 
wildered in a pleasing delusion ; and we walk about, like the 
enchanted hero of a romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods 
and meadows ; and at the same time, hears the warbling of 
birds, and the purling of streams ; but, upon the finishing of 
some secret spell, the fantastic scene breaks up, and the dis- 
consolate knight finds himself on a barren heath, or in a 
solitary desert. It is not improbable, that something like this 
may be the state of the soul after its first separation, in respect 
of the images it will receive from matter." No. 413. Spec 

Having thus explained, at sufficient length, the origin, the 
nature, and the effects of tropes, I should proceed next to the 
several kinds and divisions of them. But, in treating of these, 
were I to follow the common track of the scholastic writers on 
rhetoric, I should soon become tedious, and, I apprehend, use- 
less, at the same time. Their great business has been, with a 
most patient and frivolous industry, to branch them out, under 
a vast number of divisions, according to all the several modes in 
which a word may be carried from its literal meaning, into one 
that is figurative, without doing any more ; as if the mere know- 
ledge of the names and classes of all the tropes that can be 
formed, could be of any advantage towards the proper or grace- 
ful use of language. All that I purpose is, to give, in a few 
words, before finishing this lecture, a general view of the 
several sources whence the tropical meaning of words is derived; 
after which I shall, in subsequent lectures, descend to a more 
particular consideration of some of the most considerable 
figures of speech, and such as are in most frequent use ; by 
treating of which, I shall give all the instruction I can concern- 
ing the proper employment of figurative language, and point out 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 183 

the errors and abuses which are apt to be committed in this part 
■of style. 

All tropes, as I before observed, are founded on the relation 
which one object bears to another ; in virtue of which, the name 
of the one can be substituted instead of the name of the other ; 
and by such a substitution, the vivacity of the idea is commonly 
meant to be increased. These relations, some more, some less 
intimate, may all give rise to tropes. One of the first and most 
obvious relations is, that between a cause and its effect. Hence, 
in figurative language, the cause is, sometimes, put for the effect. 
Thus, Mr. Addison, writing of Italy : 

Blossoms and fruits, and flowers, together rise, 
And the whole year in gay confusion lies : 

where the " whole year" is plainly intended to signify the effects 
or productions of all the seasons of the year. At other times, 
again, the effect is put for the cause ; as, " grey hairs" frequently 
for old age, which causes grey hairs ; and " shade" for trees 
that produce the shade. The relation between the container and 
the thing contained, is also so intimate and obvious, as naturally 
to give rise to tropes : 



-Hie impiger haasit 



Spnmantem pateram, et pleno se proluit auro.— Ma. i. 738. 

Whei e evcy one sees, that the cup and the gold are put for 
the liquor that was contained in the golden cup. In the same 
manner, the name of any country is often used to denote the 
inhabitants of that country ; and heaven, very commonly em- 
ployed to signify God, because he is conceived as dwelling in 
heaven. To implore the assistance of heaven is the same as to 
implore the assistance of God. The relation betwixt any estab- 
lished sign, and the thing signified, is a further source of tropes. 
Hence, 

Cedant arma togae ; concedat laurea linguae. 

The " toga," being the badge of the civil professions, and the 
" laurel," of military honours, the badge of each is put for the 
civil and military characters themselves. * To assume the 
sceptre," is a common phrase for entering on royal authority. 
To tropes, founded on these several relations, of cause and effect, 
container and contained, sign and thing signified, is given the 
name of metonymy. 

When the trope is founded on the relation between att 
antecedent and a consequent, or what goes before, and imaus 



134 LECTURE XV. 

diately follows, it is then called a metalepsis ; as in the Roman 
phrase of " fuit," or " vixit," to express that one was dead. 
" Fuit Ilium et ingens gloria Dardanidum," signifies, that the 
glory of Troy is now no more. 

When the whole is put for a part, or a part for the whole ; 
a genus for a species, or a species for a genus ; the singular for 
the plural, or the plural for the singular number; in generalj 
when any thing less, or any thing more, is put for the precise 
object meant ; the figure is then called a synecdoche. It is very 
common, for instance, to describe a whole object by some re- 
markable part of it ; as when we say, " A fleet of so many sail," 
in the place of " ships ;" when we use the " head" for the 
"person," the "pole" for the "earth," the " waves" for the "sea." 
In like manner, an attribute may be put for a subject ; as " youth 
and beauty," for the " young and beautiful ;" and sometimes a 
subject for its attribute. But it is needless to insist longer on 
this enumeration, which serves little purpose. I have said 
enough to give an opening into that great variety of relations 
between objects, by means of which, the mind is assisted to pass 
easily from one to another ; and by the name of the one, under- 
stands the other to be meant. It is always some accessory idea, 
which recals the principal to the imagination ; and commonly 
recals it with more force, than if the principal idea had been 
expressed. 

The relation which is far the most fruitful of tropes, I have 
not yet mentioned ; that is, the relation of similitude and resem- 
blance. On this is founded, what is called the metaphor : when, 
in place of using the proper name of any object, we employ, in 
its place, the name of some other which is like it, which is a sort 
of picture of it, and which thereby awakens the conception of it 
with more force or grace. This figure is more frequent than all 
the rest put together ; and the language, of both prose and verse^ 
owes to it much of its elegance and grace. This, therefore, 
deserves very full and particular consideration ; and shall be the 
subject of the next lecture. 



LECTURE XV. 

METAPHOR. 



After the preliminary observations I have made, relating 
to figurative language in general, I come now to treat separately 



METAPHOR, 105 

of such figures of speech, as occur most frequently, and require 
particular attention : and I begin with metaphor. This is a 
figure founded entirely on the resemblance which one object 
bears to another. Hence, it is much allied to simile, or com- 
parison ; and is indeed no other than a comparison, expressed 
in an abridged form. When I say of some great minister, " that 
he upholds the state, like a pillar which supports the weight of 
a whole edifice," I fairly make a comparison ; but when I say 
of such a minister, " that he is the pillar of the state," it is now 
become a metaphor. The comparison betwixt the minister and 
a pillar, is made in the mind ; but is expressed without any of 
the words that denote comparison. The comparison is only 
insinuated, not expressed : the one object is supposed to be so, 
like the other, that, without formally drawing the comparison, 
the name of the one may be put in the place of the name of 
the other. " The minister is the pillar of the state." This, 
therefore, is a more lively and animated manner of expressing 
the resemblances which imagination traces among objects. 
There is nothing which delights the fancy more, than this act 
of comparing things together, discovering resemblances between 
them, and describing them by their likeness. The mind, thus 
employed, is exercised without being fatigued ; and is gratified 
with the consciousness of its own ingenuity. We need not be 
surprised, therefore, at finding all language tinctured strongly 
with metaphor. It insinuates itself even into familiar conver- 
sation ; and, unsought, rises up of its own accord in the mind. 
The very words which I have casually employed in describing 
this, are a proof of what I say ; tinctured, insinuates, rises up, 
are all of them metaphorical expressions, borrowed from some 
resemblance which fancy forms between sensible objects, and 
the internal operations of the mind ; and yet the terms are 
no less clear, and, perhaps, more expressive, than if words 
had been used, which were to be taken in their strict and literal 
sense. 

Though all metaphor imports^ comparison, and therefore is, 
in that respect, a figure of thought ; yet, as the words in a 
metaphor are not taken literally, but changed from their proper 
tc-a figurative sense, the metaphor is commonly ranked among 
t ropes or figures of words. But, provided the nature of it be 
well understood, it signifies very little whether we call it a 
figure or a trope. I have confined it to the expression of 
resemblance between two objects. I must remark, however, 
that the word metaphor is sometimes used in. a looser and 



186 LECTURE XV. 

more extended sense ; for the application of a term in any 
figurative signification, whether the figure be founded on 
resemblance, or on some other relation which two objects bear 
to each other. For instance; when grey hairs are put for 
old age, as, " to bring one's grey hairs with sorrow to the 
grave ;" some writers would call this a metaphor, though it is 
hot properly one, but what rhetoricians call a metonymy ; tha. 
is, the effect put for the cause ; " grey hairs" being the effect of 
old age, but not bearing any sort of resemblance to it. Aris- 
totle, in his poetics, uses metaphor in this extended sense, for 
any figurative meaning imposed upon a word ; as a whole put 
for the part, or a part for the whole ; a species for the genus, or 
a genus for the species. But it would be unjust to tax this 
most acute writer with any inaccuracy on this account ; the . 
minute subdivisions, and various names of tropes, being un- 
known in his days,, and the invention of later rhetoricians. 
Now, however, when these divisions are established, it is 
inaccurate to call every figurative use of terms promiscuously, 
a metaphor. 

Of all the figures of speech, none comes so near to painting 
as metaphor. Its peculiar effect is to give light and strength 
to description ; to make intellectual ideas, in some sort, visible 
to the eye, by giving them colour, and substance, and sensible 
qualities. In order to produce this effect, however a delicate 
hand is required ; for by a very little inaccuracy, we are in 
hazard of introducing confusion, in place of promoting perspi- 
cuity. Several rules, therefore, are necessary to be given for 
the proper management of metaphors. But, before entering on 
these, I shall give one instance of a very beautiful metaphor, 
that I may show the figure to full advantage. I shall take my 
instance from Lord Bolingbroke's Remarks on the History of 
England. Just at the conclusion of his work, he is speaking 
of the behaviour of Charles I. to his last parliament : " In a 
word," says he, " about a month after their meeting, he dis- 
solved them ; and, as soon as he had dissolved them, he 
repented; but he repented too late of his rashness. WeL 
might he repent, for the vessel was now full, and this last drop 
made the waters ofJiitt erTTess overflow." , " Here," he acfds, 
" we draw the curtain, and put an end to our remarks." 
Nothing could be more happily thrown off. The metaphor, 
we see, is continued through several expressions. The vessel 
is put for the state or temper of the nation already full, that is, 
provoked to the highest by former oppressions and wrongs ; this 



METAPHOR. 18/ 

last drop stands for the provocation recently received by the 
abrupt dissolution of the parliament ; and the overflowing of the 
waters of bitterness, beautifully expresses all the effects of resent- 
ment let loose by an exasperated people. 

On this passage we may make two remarks in passing. The 
one, that nothing forms a more spirited and dignified conclu- 
sion of a subject, than a figure of this kind happily placed at 
the close. We see the effect of it in this instance. The author 
goes off with a good grace, and leaves a strong and full impres- 
sion of his subject on the reader's mind. My other remark is, 
the advantage which a metaphor frequently has above a formal 
comparison. How much would the sentiment here have been 
enfeebled, if it had been expressed in the style of a regular 
simile, thus : " Well might he repent ; for the state of the 
nation, loaded with grievances and provocations, resembled a 
vessel that was now full ; and this superadded provocation, like 
the last drop infused, made their rage and resentment, as waters 
of bitterness, overflow." It has infinitely more spirit and force, 
as it now stands, in the form of a metaphor. " Well might he 
repent ; for the vessel was now full ; and this last drop made 
the waters of bitterness overflow." 

Having mentioned, with applause, this instance from Lord 
Bolingbroke, I think it incumbent on me here to take notice, 
that though 1 may have recourse to this author, sometimes for 
examples of style, it is his style only, and not his sentiments, 
that deserve praise. It is, indeed, my opinion, that there are 
few writings in the English language, which, for the matter con- 
tained in them, can be read with less profit or fruit than Lord 
Bolingbroke's works. His political writings have the merit of 
a very lively and eloquent style ; but they have no other ; being 
as to the substance, the mere temporary productions of faction 
and party ; no better, indeed, than pamphlets written for the 
day. His posthumous, or, as they are called, his philosophical 
works, wherein he attacks religion, have still less merit ; for 
they are as loose in the style as they are flimsy in the reasoning 
An unhappy instance, this author is, of parts and genius so mi- 
serably perverted by faction and passion, that, as his memory 
will descend to posterity with little honour, so his productions 
will soon pass, and are, indeed, already passing into neglect and 
oblivion. 

Returning from this digression to the subject before us, I 
proceed to lay down the rules to be observed in the conduct of 
metaphors ; and which are much the same for tropes of every kind. 



188 LECTURE XV. 

The first which I shall mention is, that they be suited to the 
nature of the subject of which we treat ; neither too many, nor 
too gay ; nor too elevated for it ; that we neither attempt to force 
the subject, by means of them, into a degree of elevation which 
is not congruous to it ; nor, on the other hand, allow it to sink 
below its proper dignity. This is a direction which belongs to 
all figurative language, and should be ever kept in view. Some 
metaphors are allowable, nay beautiful in poetry, which it 
would be absurd and unnatural to employ in prose ; some may 
be graceful in orations, which would be very improper in his- 
torical or philosophical composition. We must remember, that 
figures are the dress of our sentiments. As there is a natural 
congruity between dress and the character or rank of the person 
who wears it, a violation of which congruity never fails to hurt ; 
the same holds precisely as to the application of figures to senti- 
ment. The excessive or unseasonable employment of them is 
mere foppery in writing. It gives a boyish air to composition ; 
and, jn&ead of raising a subject, in fact, diminishes its dignity. 
For, as in life, true dignity must be founded on character, not 
on dress and appearance ; so the dignity of composition must 
arise from sentiment and thought, not from ornament. The af- 
fectation and parade of ornament detract as much from an author 
as they do from a man. Figures and metaphors, therefore, 
should, on no occasion, be stuck on too profusely ; and never 
should be such as refuse to accord with the strain of our senti- 
ment. Nothing can be more unnatural, than for a writer to 
carry on a train of reasoning, in the same sort of figurative lan- 
guage which he would use in description. When he reasons, 
we look only for perspicuity ; when he describes, we expect em- 
bellishment ; when he divides, or relates, we desire plainness 
and simplicity. One of the greatest secrets in composition is, 
to know when to be simple. This always gives a heightening 
to ornament, in its proper place. The right disposition of the 
shade, makes the light and colouring strike the more : " Is enim 
est eloquens," says Cicero, " qui et humilia subtiliter, et magna 
graviter, et mediocria temperate, potest dicere. — Nam qui nihil 
potest tranquilly, nihil leniter, nihil definite, distincte, potest 
dicere, is, cum non prseparatis auribus inflammare rem coepit, 
furere apud sanos, et quasi inter sobrios bacchari temulentus 
videtur."* This admonition should be particularly attended to 

* " He is truly eloquent who can discourse of humble subjects in a plain 
style, who can treat important ones with dignity, and speak of things which are 
of a middle nature, in a. temperate strain. For one who, upon no occasion, can 
express himself in a calm, orderly, distinct manner, when he begins to be on fire 



METAPHOR. 189 

by young practitioners in the art of writing, who are apt to be 
carried away by an undistinguishing admiration of what is 
showy and florid, whether in its place or not.* 

The second rule, which I give, respects the choice of objects, 
from whence metaphors, and other figures, are to be drawn. 
The field for figurative language is very wide. All nature, to 
speak in the style of figures, opens its stores to us, and admits 
us to gather, from all sensible objects, whatever can illustrate 
intellectual or moral ideas. Not only the gay and splendid ob- 
jects of sense, but the grave, the terrifying, and even the gloomy 
and dismal, may, on different occasions, be introduced into 
figures with propriety. But we must beware of ever using such 
allusions as raise in the mind disagreeable, mean, vulgar, or 
dirty ideas. Even when metaphors are chosen in order to vilify 
and degrade any object, an author should study never to be 
nauseous in his allusions. Cicero blames an orator of his time, 
for terming his enemy' "Stercus Curiae ;" * quamvis sit simile," 
says he, " tamen est deformis cogitatio similitudinis." But, in 
subjects of dignity, it is an unpardonable fault to introduce mean 
and vulgar metaphors. In the treatise on the Art of Sinking, 
in Dean Swift's works, there is a full and humorous collection 
of instances of this kind, wherein authors, instead of exalting, 
have contrived to degrade, their subjects by the figures they em- 
ployed. Authors of greater note than those which are there 
quoted, have, at times, fallen into this error. Archbishop Tillot- 
son, for instance, is sometimes negligent in his choice of meta- 
phors ; as, when speaking of the day of judgment, he describes 
"the world, as " cracking about the sinners' ears." Shakespeare, 
whose imagination was rich and bold, in a much greater degree 
than it was delicate, often fails here. The following, for exam- 
ple, is a gross transgression ; in his Henry V. having mentioned 

before his readers are prepared to kindle along with him, has the appearance of 
raving like a madman among persons who are in their senses, or of reeling like a 
drunkard in the midst of sober company." 

* What person of the least taste can bear the following passage, in a late 
historian ? He is giving an account of the famous act of parliament against 
irregular marriages in England : " The bill," says he, " underwent a great 
number of alerations and amendments, which were not effected without violent 
contest. " This is plain language, suited to the subject ; and we naturally expect 
that he should go on, in the same strain, to tell us that, after these contests, it 
was carried by a great majority of voices, and obtained the royal assent. But 
how does he express himself in finishing the period ? " At length, however, 
it was floated through both houses on the tide of a great majority, and steered 
into the safe harbour of royal appiobation." Nothing can be more puerile than 
such language. Smollett's History of England, as quoted in Critical Review for 
October, 1761, p. 251. 



190 LECTURE XV. 

a dunghill, he presently raises a metaphor from the steam of it , 
and on a subject too, that naturally led to much nobler ideas : 

And those that leave their valiant bones in France, 
Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, 
They shall be famed ; for there the sun shall greet them, 
And draw their honours reeking up to heaven. — Act iv. Sc. 8. 

In the third place, as metaphors should be drawn from ob- 
jects of some dignity, so particular care should be taken that 
the resemblance, which is the foundation of the metaphor, be 
clear and perspicuous, not far-fetched, nor difficult to discover. 
The transgression of this rule makes, what are called, harsh or 
forced metaphors, which are always displeasing, because they 
puzzle the reader ; and, instead of illustrating the thought, render 
it perplexed and intricate. With metaphors of this kind, Cowley 
abounds. He, and some of the writers of his age, seem to have 
considered it as the perfection of wit, to hit upon likenesses 
between objects which no other person could have discovered : 
and, at the same time, to pursue those metaphors so far, that it 
requires some ingenuity to follow them out, and comprehend 
them. This makes a metaphor resemble an enigma ; and is the 
very reverse of Cicero's rule on this head : * Verecunda debet 
esse translatio ; ut deducta esse in alienum locum non irruisse, 
atque ut precario, non vi, venisse videatur."* How forced and 
obscure, for instance, are the following verses of Cowley, speak- 
ing of his mistress : 

Wo to her stubborn heart ; if once mine come 
Into the self-same room, 
'Twill tear and blow up all within, 
Like a granada, shot into a magazine. 
Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts 
Of both our broken hearts ; 
Shall out of both one new one make ; 
From hers the alloy, from mine the metal lake ; 
For of her heart, he from the flames will find 
But little left behind ; 
Mine only will remain entire, 
No dross was there to perish in the fire. 

In this manner he addresses sleep 

In vain, thou drowsy God, I thee invoke, 
For thou who dost from fumes arise, 
Thou who man's soul dost overshade 
With a thick cloud by vapours made, 

* " Every metaphor should be modest, so that it may carry the appearance of 
having been led, not of having forced itself into the place of that word whose 
•aom it occupies ; that it may seem to have come thither of its own accord, and 
»*t by constraint."— De Oratore, lib. iii. c. 42. 



METAPHOR. 191 

Canst have no power to shut his eyes, 
Whose flame's so pure, that it sends up no smoke ; 
Yet how do tears but from some vapours rise. 
Tears that bewintcr all my year ; 
The fate of Egypt I sustain, 
And never feel the dew of rain, 
From clouds which in the head appear : 
But all my too much moisture owe 
To overflowings of the heart below.* 

Trite and common resemblances should indeed be avoided in 
our metaphors. To be new, and not vulgar, is a beauty. But 
when they are fetched from some likeness too remote, and lying 
too far out of the road of ordinary thought, then, besides their 
obscurity, they have also the disadvantage of appearing la- 
boured, and, as the French call it, recherche: whereas metaphor, 
like every other ornament, loses its whole grace, when it does 
not seem natural and easy. 

It is but a bad and ungraceful softening, which writers some- 
times use for a harsh metaphor, when they palliate it with the 
expression, as it tvere. This is but an awkward parenthesis ; 
and metaphors, which need this apology of an as it were, would, 
generally, have been better omitted. Metaphors, too, borrowed 
from any of the sciences, especially such of them as belong 
to particular professions, are almost always faulty by their 
obscurity. 

In the fourth place, it must be carefully attended to, in the 
conduct of metaphors, never to jumble metaphorical and plain 
language together ; never to construct a period so, that part of 
it must be understood metaphorically, part literally; which 
always produces a most disagreeable confusion. Instances, 
which are but too frequent, even in good authors, will make 
this rule, and the reason of it, be clearly understood. In Mr. 
Pope's translation of the Odyssey, Penelope, bewailing the abrupt 
departure of her. son Telemachus, is made to speak thus : 

Long to my joys my dearest lord is lost, 
His country's buckler, and the Grecian boast ; 
Now from my fond embrace by tempests torn, 
Our other column of the state is borne ; 
Nor took a kind adieu, nor sought consent.! 

* See an excellent criticism on this sort of metaphysical poetry, in Dr. 
Johnson's Life of Cowley. 

t In the. original, there is no allusion to a column, and the metaphor is regu- 
larly supported : 

'H TTph /lev TToVlV EI70XoV k&toXfett. Ov/lOkioVTa, 

YI«VTOiii? apiTricrt xcxaa/ievov, h Aavatnciv 

'E<70?Oov, toD xAeoj fipv xa&' 'EhhaSa xai /uuov ''/lpy*f« 

V.Zv V «u ira)$ ajaffjjrov anipeApai/TO 96e\Kxi 

'AxKea ex peyapw, (08* op/iYi9tvrt; a'xovtra. — A. 724. 



192 LECTURE XV. 

Here, in one line, her son is figured as a column ; and in the 
next, he returns to be a person, to whom it belongs to take 
adieu, and to ask consent. This is inconsistent. The poet 
should either have kept himself to the idea of man, in the literal 
sense; or, if he figured him by a column, he should have ascribed 
nothing to him but what belonged to it. He was not at liberty 
to ascribe to that column the actions and properties of a man. 
Such unnatural mixtures render the image indistinct ; leaving it 
to waver, in our conception, between the figurative and the 
literal sense. Horace's rule, which he applies to characters, 
should be observed by all writers who deal in figures : 

-Servetur ad imum, 



Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. • 

Mr. Pope, elsewhere, addressing himself to the king, says ; 

To thee the wor'd its present homage pays, 
The Larvest early, but mature the praise. 

This, though not so gross, is a fault however of the same kind. 
It is plain, that, had not the rhyme misled him to the choice of 
an improper phrase, he would have said, 

The harvest early, but mature the crop : 

And so would have continued .the figure which he had begun. 
Whereas, by dropping it unfinished, and by employing the 
literal word, praise, when we were expecting something that 
related to the harvest, the figure is broken, and the two members 
of the sentence have no proper correspondence with each 
other : 

The harvest early, but mature the praise. 

The works of Ossian abound with beautiful and correct 
metaphors ; such as that on a hero : " In peace, thou art the 
gate of Spring ; in war, the mountain storm." Or this, on a 
woman : " She was covered with the light of beauty ; but her 
heart was the house of pride." They afford, however, one 
instance of the fault we are now censuring : " Trothal went forth 
with the stream of his people, but they met a rock : for Fingal 
stood unmoved ; broken they rolled back from his side. Nor 
did they roll in safety; the spear of the king pursued their 
flight." At the beginning, the metaphor is very beautiful. The 
stream, the unmoved rock, the waves rolling back broken, are 
expressions employed in the proper and consistent language of 
figure; but in the end, when we are told, u they did not roll in 



METAPHOR. \ca 

safety, because the spear of the king pursued their flight," the 
literal meaning is improperly mixed with the metaphor; they 
are, at one and the same time, presented to us as waves that ro 
and men that may be pursued and wounded with a spear. If it be 
faulty to jumble together, in this manner, metaphorical and plain 
language, it is still more so, 

In the fifth place, to make two different metaphors meet on 
one object. This is what is called mixed metaphor, and is 
indeed one of the grossest abuses of this figure ; such as Shake- 
speare's expression, " to take arms against a sea of troubles." 
This makes a most unnatural medley, and confounds the ima- 
gination entirely. Quintilian has sufficiently guarded us against 
it. " Id imprimis est custodiendum, ut quo genere cceperis 
translationis, hoc finias. Multi autem, cum initium a tempestate 
sumserunt, incendio aut ruina finiunt; quae est incons-equentia 
reruin foedissima."* Observe, for instance, what an inconsistent 
group of objects is brought together by Shakespeare, in the 
following passage of the Tempest; speaking of persons re- 
covering their judgment after the enchantment, which held them, 
was dissolved : 



• The charm dissolves apace, 



And as the morning steals upon the night, 
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
Their clearer reason.——-— 

So many ill-sorted things are here joined, that the mind can see 
nothing clearly ; the morning stealing upon the darkness, and at 
the same time melting it; the senses of men chasing fumes, igno- 
rant fumes, and fumes that mantle. So again in Romeo and 
Juliet : 

-as glorious, 



As is a wing'd messenger from heaven, 
Unto the white upturn'd wondering eyes 
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, 
When he bestrides the lazy pacing clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Here,, the angel is represented, as, at one moment, bestriding the 
clouds and sailing upon the air ; and upon the bosom of the air 
too ; which forms such a confused picture, that it is impossible 
for any imagination to comprehend it. 

• " We must be particularly attentive to end with the same kind of metaphor 
with which we have begun. Some, when they begin the figure with a tempest 
conclude it with a conflagration ; which forms a shameful inconsistency." 

O 



194 LECTURE XV. 

More correct writers than Shakspeare sometimes fall into 
this error of mixing metaphors. It is surprising how the fol- 
lowing inaccuracy should have escaped Mr. Addison in his letter 
from Italy : 

I bridle in my struggling muse with pain. 
That longs to launch into a bolder strain.* 

The muse, figured as a horse, may be bridled; but when we 
speak of launching, we make it a ship ; and by no force of 
imagination can it be supposed both a horse and a ship at one 
moment ; bridled, to hinder it from launching. The same author, 
in one of his numbers in the Spectator, says, " There is not a 
single view of human nature, which is not sufficient to extinguish 
the seeds of pride." Observe the incoherence of the things 
here joined together, making K a view extinguish, and extinguish 
seeds." 

Horace, also, is incorrect in the following passage : 

Urit enim fulgore suo, qui praegravat artes 
Infra se positas. L. ii. Ep. 1, 13. 

Urit qui pnegravat. — He dazzles who bears down with liis 
weight ; makes plainly an inconsistent mixture of metaphorical 
ideas. Neither can this other passage be altogether vindicated ; 

-ah miser, 



Quanta laboras in Gharybdi ! 

Digne puer meliore flamma. — L. i. od. 27 

Where a whirlpool of water, Charybdis, is said to be a flame, 
not good enough for this young man ; meaning, that he was un- 
fortunate in the object of his passion. Flame is, indeed, become 
almost a literal word for the passion of love : but as it still re- 
tains, in some degree, its figurative power, it should never have 
been used as synonymous with water, and mixed with it in the 
same metaphor When Mr. Pope (Eloisa to Abelard) says, 

All then is full, possessing and possest, 
No craving void left aching in the breast. 

A void may, metaphorically be said to crave ; but can a void be 
said to ache ? 

A good rule has been given for examining the propriety of 
metaphors, when we doubt whether or not they be of the mixed 
kind ; namely, that we should try to form a picture upon them, 

* " In my observation on this passage, I find that I had coincided with Dr. 
Johnson, who passes a similar censure upon it in his Life of Addison. 



METAPHOR. 105 

and consider how the parts would agree, and what sort of fi- 
gure the whole would present, when delineated with a pencil. 
By this means we should become sensible, whether inconsistent 
circumstances were mixed, and a monstrous image thereby pro- 
duced, as in all those faulty instances I have now been giving ; 
or whether the object was all along presented in one natural 
and consistent point of view. 

As metaphors ought never to be mixed, so, in the sixth place, 
we should avoid crowding them together on the same object. 
Supposing each of the metaphors to be preserved distinct, yet, 
if they be heaped on one another, they produce a confusion 
somewhat of the same kind with the mixed metaphor. We may 
judge of this by the following passage from -Horace : 

Motum ex Metello consule civicum, 
Bellique causas, et vitia, et modus 
Ludumque fortunae, gravesque, 
Priucipum amicitias, et arma 
Nondum expiatis nncta cruoribus, 
Periculosae plenum opus aleaa 
Tractas, et incedis per ignes 
Suppositos cineri doloso.* — Lib. ii. od. 1. 

This passage, though very poetical, is however, harsh and ob- 
scure ; owing to no other cause but this, that three distinct me- 
taphors are crowded together, to describe " the difficulty of 
Poliio's writing a history of the civil wars. First, " Tractas 
arma uncta cruoribus nondum expiatis ;" next, " Opus plenum 
periculosae aleae ;" and then, " Incedis per ignes, suppositos 
doloso cineri." The mind has difficulty in passing readily through 
so many different views given it, in quick succession, of the 
same object. 

The only other rule concerning metaphors, which I shall add, 
in the seventh place, is, that they be not too far pursued. If 
the resemblance, on which the figure is founded, be long dwelt 
upon, and carried into all its minute circumstances, we make an 

* Of warm commotions, wrathful jars, 
The growing seeds of civil wars ; 

Of double fortune's cruel games, 

The specious means, the private aims, 
And fatal friendships of the guilty great, 
Alas ! how .fatal to the Roman state ! 

Of mighty legions late subdu'd , 

And arms with Latian blood embru'd ; 

Yet unatoned (a labour vast, 

Doubtful the die, and dire the cast !) 
You treat adventurous, and incautious tveail 
On fires with faithless embers overspread.— FnAKciSo 

o 2 



190 LECTURE XV. 

allegory instead of a metaphor ; we tire the reader, who soon 
becomes Aveary of this play of fancy ; and we render our dis- 
course obscure. This is called, straining a metaphor. Cowley 
deals in this to excess ; and to this error is owing, in a great 
measure, that intricacy and harshness, in his figurative language, 
which I before remarked. Lord Shaftesbury is sometimes guilty 
of pursuing his metaphors too far. Fond, to a high degree, of 
every decoration of style, when once he had hit upon a figure 
that pleased him, he was extremely loth to part with it. Thus, 
in his Advice to an Author, having taken up soliloquy, or medi- 
tation, under the metaphor of a proper method of evacuation 
for an author, he pursues this metaphor through several pages, 
under all the forms " of discharging crudities, throwing oft' 
froth and scum, bodily operation, taking physic, curing indi- 
gestion, giving vent to choler, bile, flatulencies, and tumours ;" 
till, at last, the idea becomes nauseous. Dr. Young also often 
trespasses in the same way. The merit, however, of this writer, 
in figurative language, is great, and deserves to be remarked. 
No writer, ancient or modern, had a stronger imagination than 
Dr. Young, or one more fertile in figures of every kind His 
metaphors are often new, and often natural and beautiful. But 
his imagination was strong and rich, rather than delicate and 
correct. Hence, in his Night Thoughts, there prevails an ob- 
scurity, and a hardness in his style. The metaphors are frequently 
too bold, and frequently too far pursued ; the reader is dazzled 
rather than enlightened ; and kept constantly on the stretch to 
keep pace with the author. We may observe, for instance, hovy 
the following metaphor is spun out : 

Thy thoughts are vagabond ; all outward bound, 

Midst sands and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure, 

If gain 'd dear bought; and better miss'd than gain'd. 

Fancy and sense, from an infected shore, 

Thy cargo brings ; and pestilence the prize ; 

Then such the thirst, insatiable thirst, 

By fond indulgence but inflam'd the more, 

Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tired. 

Speaking of old age, he says it should 

Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore 
Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon ; 
And put good works on board ; and wait the « nd 
That shortly blows us into worlds unknown. 

The two first lines are uncommonly beautiful ; " walk 
thoughtful on the silent," &c. ; but when he continues the me- 
taphor, " to putting good works on board, and waiting the 
wind,'' it plainly becomes strained, and sinks in dignity. Of all 



ALLEGORY. 187 

the English authors, I know none so happy in his metaphors 
as Mr. Addison. His imagination was neither so rich nor so 
strong as Dr. Young's but far more chaste and delicate. 
Perspicuity, natural grace, and ease, always distinguish his 
figures. They are neither harsh nor strained ; they never ap- 
pear to have been studied or sought after ; but seem to rise of 
their own accord from the subject, and constantly embellish it. 

I have now treated fully of the metaphor, and the rules that 
should govern it, a part of style so important, that it required 
particular illustration. I have only to add a few words con- 
cerning allegory. 

An allegory may be regarded as a continued metaphor ; as it 
is the representation of some one thing by another that resembles 
it, and that is made to stand for it. Thus in Prior's Henry and 
Emma, Emma in the following allegorical manner describes her 
constancy to Henry : 

Did I but purpose to embark with thee 
On the smooth surfaee of a summer's sea, 
While gentle zephyrs play with prosperous gales, 
And fortune's favour fills the swelling sails, 
But would forsake the ship, and make the shore, 
When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar ? 

We may also take from the Scriptures a very fine example 
of an allegory, in the eightieth Psalm ; where the people of 
Israel are represented under the image of a vine, and the figure 
is supported throughout with great correctness and beauty : 
"Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt, thou hast cast out the 
heathen, and planted it. Thou preparedst room before it, and 
didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the land. The hills 
were covered with the shadow of it ; and the boughs thereo' 
were like the goodly cedars. She sent out her boughs into the 
sea, and her branches into the river. Why hast thou broken 
down her hedges, so that all they which pass by the way do 
pluck her ? The boar out of the wood doth waste it ; and the 
wild beast of the field doth devour it. Return, we beseech thee, 
O God of hosts, look down from Heaven, and behold, and visit 
this vine !" Here there is no circumstance (except perhaps one 
phrase at the beginning, " thou hast cast out the heathen,") that 
does not strictly agree to a vine, whilst at the same time the 
whole quadrates happily with the Jewish state represented by 
this figure. This is the first and principal requisite in the conduct 
of an allegory, that the figurative and the literal meaning be not 
mixed inconsistently together For instance, instead of desorib- 



VM LECTURE XV. 

ing the vine, as wasted by the boar from the wood, and devoured 
by the wild beast of the field, had the Psalmist said, it was 
afflicted by-heathens, or overcome by enemies (which is the real 
meaning), this would have ruined the allegory, and produced the 
same confusion, of which I gave examples in metaphors, when 
the figurative and literal sense are mixed and jumbled together. 
Indeed, the same rules that were given for metaphors, may also 
be applied to allegories, on account of the affinity they bear to 
each other. The only material difference between them, besides 
the one being short, and the other being prolonged, is, that a 
metaphor always explains itself by the words that are connected 
with it in their proper and natural meaning ; as when I say, 
" Achilles was a lion :" an " able minister is the pillar of the 
state ;" my lion and my pillar are sufficiently interpreted by the 
mention of Achilles^ and the minister, which I join to them; but 
an allegory is, or may be, allowed to stand more disconnected 
with the literal meaning; the interpretation not so directly 
pointed out, but left to our own reflection. 

Allegories were a favourite method of delivering instructions 
in ancient times ; for what we call fables or parables are no 
other than allegories ; where, by words and actions attributed to 
beasts or inanimate objects, the dispositions of men are figured ; 
and what we call the moral, is the unfigured sense or meaning of 
the allegory. An enigma or riddle is also a species of allegory ; 
one thing represented or imaged by another ; but purposely 
wrapped up under so many circumstances, as to be rendered ob- 
scure. Where a riddle is not intended, it is always a fault in 
allegory to be too dark. The meaning should be easily seen 
through the figure employed to shadow it. However, the proper 
mixture of light and shade in such compositions, the exact adjust- # 
ment of all the figurative circumstances with the literal sense, 
so as neither to lay the meaning too bare and open, nor to cover 
and wrap it up too much, has ever been found an affair of great 
nicety ; and there are few species of composition in which it is 
more difficult to write so as to please and command attention, 
than in allegories. In some of the visions of the Spectator, we 
have examples of allegories very happily executed 



199 

LECTURE XVI. 

HYPERBOLE.— PERSONIFICATION.— APOSTROPHE. 

The next figure concerning which I am to treat is called 
hyperbole, or exaggeration. It consists in magnifying an objed 
beyond its natural bounds. It may be considered sometimes as 
a trope, and sometimes as a figure of thought : and here indeed 
the distinction between these two classes begins not to be clear, 
nor is it of any importance that we should have recourse to 
metaphysical subtilties, in order to keep them distinct. Whether 
we call it trope or figure, it is plain that it is a mode of speech 
which hath some foundation in nature. For in all languages, 
even in common conversation, hyperbolical expressions very 
frequently occur ; as swift as the wind ; as white as the snow, 
and the like ; and our common forms of compliment are almost 
all of them extravagant hyperboles. If any thing be remarkably 
good or great in its kind, we are instantly ready to add to it some 
exaggerating epithet ; and to make it the greatest or best we 
ever saw. The imagination has always a tendency to gratify 
itself, by magnifying its present object, and carrying it to excess. 
More or less of this hyperbobcal turn will prevail in language, 
according to the liveliness of imagination among the people 
who speak it. Hence young people deal always much in hyper- 
boles. Hence the language of the orientals was far more hyper- 
bolical than that of the Europeans, who are of more phlegmatic, 
or, if you please, of more correct imagination. Hence, among 
all writers in early times, and in the rude periods of society, we 
may expect this figure to abound. Greater experience, and 
more cultivated society, abate the warmth of imagination, and 
chasten the manner of expression. 

The exaggerated expressions to which our ears are accus- 
tomed in conversation, scarcely strike us as hyperboles. In an 
instant we make the proper abatement, and understand them 
according to their just value. But when there is something 
striking and unusual in the form of a hyperbolical expression, 
it then rises into a figure of speech which draws our attention : 
and here it is necessary to observe, that unless the reader's 
imagination be in such a state as disposes it to rise and swell 
along with the hyperbolical expression, he is always hurt and 
offended by it. For a sort of disagreeable force is put upon 
him ; he is required to strain and exert his fancy, when he feels 



200 LECTURE XVI. 

no inclination to make any such effort Hence the hyperbole 
is a figure of difficult management ; and ought neither to be 
frequently used, nor long dwelt upon. On some occasions, 
it is undoubtedly proper, being, as was before observed, the 
natural style of a sprightly and heated imagination ; but when 
hyperboles are unseasonable, or too frequent, they render a 
composition frigid and unaffecting. They are the resource of 
an author of feeble imagination ; of one, describing objects 
which either want native dignity in themselves ; or whose 
dignity he cannot show by describing them simply, and in their 
just proportions, and is therefore obliged to rest upon tumid and 
exaggerated expressions. 

Hyperboles are of two kinds ; either such as are employed 
' in description, or such as are suggested by the warmth of 
passion. The best, by far, are those which are the effect of 
passion : for if the imagination has a tendency to magnify 
its objects beyond their natural proportion, passion possesses 
this tendency in a vastly stronger degree ; and therefore not 
only excuses the most daring figures, but very often renders 
them natural and just. All passions, without exception, love, 
terror, amazement, indignation, anger, and even grief, throw 
the mind into confusion, aggravate their objects, and of course 
prompt a hyperbolical style. Hence the following sentiments 
of Satan, in Milton, as strongly as they are described, contain 
nothing but what is natural and proper ; exhibiting the picture, 
of a mind agitated with rage and despair ; 

Me, miserable ! which way shall I fly 

Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ? 

Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell ; 

And in tlie lowest depth, a lower deep, 

Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, 

To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.— Book iv. I. 73. 

fn simple description, though hyperboles are not excluded, 
yet they must be used with more caution, and require more pre- 
paration, in order to make the mind relish them. Either the 
object described must be of that kind, which of itself seizes the 
fancy strongly, and disposes it to run beyond bounds ; some- 
thing vast, surprising, and new, or the writer's art must be ex- 
erted in heating the fancy gradually, and preparing it to think 
highly of the object which he intends to exaggerate. When a 
poet is describing an earthquake or a storm, or when he has 
brought us into the midst of a battle, we can bear strong hyper- 
boles without displeasure. But when he is describing only a 



HYPERBOLE. 201 

woman in grief, it is impossible not to be disgusted with such 

wild exaggeration as the following, in one of our dramatic poets : 

1 found her on the floor 

In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful ; 

Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, 

That were the world on fire, they might have drown'd 

The wrath of heaven, and quench'd the mighty ruin. — Lee. 

This is mere bombast. The person herself who was under 
the distracting agitations of grief, might be permitted to hyper- 
bolize strongly : but the spectator describing her, cannot be 
allowed an equal liberty : for this plain reason, that the one is 
supposed to utter the sentiments of passion, the other speaks 
only the language of description, which is always according 
to the dictates of nature, on a lower tone : a distinction, which, 
however obvious, has not been attended to by many writers. 

How far a hyperbole, supposing it properly introduced, may 
be safely carried without overstretching it ; what is the proper 
measure and boundary of this figure, cannot, as far as I know, 
be ascertained by any precise rule. Good sense, and just taste, 
must determine the point ; beyond which if we pass, we become 
extravagant. Lucan may be pointed out as an author apt to be 
excessive in his hyperboles. Among the compliments paid by 
the Roman poets to their emperors, it had become fashionable 
to ask them, what part of the heavens they would choose for 
their habitation, after they should have become gods ? Virgil 
had already carried this sufficiently far in his address to 
Augustus : 

— Tibi brachia contrahit ardens 

Scorpius, et coeli justa plus parte relinquit.* — Georg. i. 34. 

But this did not suffice Lucan. Resolved to outdo all his pre- 
decessors, in a like address to Nero, he very gravely beseeches 
him not to choose his place near either of the poles, but to 
be sure to occupy just the middle of the heavens, lest, by 
going either to one side or other, his weight should overset the 
universe. 

Sed neque in Arctoo sedem tibi legeris orbe, 
Nee polus adversi calidus qua mergitur austri : 
iEtheris hnmensi partem si presseris unam 
Sentiet axis onus. Librati pondera coeli 
Orbe tene medio.t Phars. i. 53. 

• " The scorpion, ready to receive thy laws, 

Yields half his region, and contracts his paws.'' 

t But, oh ! whatever be thy godhead great, 
Fix not in regions too remote thy seat 
Nor deign thou near the frozen Bear to shins, 
Nor where the sultry southern stars decline. 



202 LECTURE XVI. 

Such thoughts as these, are what the French call oulres. and 
always proceed from a false fire of genius. The Spanish and 
African writers, as Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustin, are remarked 
for being fond of them. As in that epitaph on Charles V. by a 
Spanish writer . 

Pro tumulo ponas orbem, pro tegmine ccelum, 
Sidera pro facibus, pro lacrymis maria. 

Sometimes they dazzle and impose by their boldness ; but 
wherever reason and good sense are so much violated, there can 
be no true beauty. Epigrammatic writers are frequently guilty in 
this respect ; resting the whole merit of their epigrams on some 
extravagant hyperbolical turn ; such as the following of Dr. Pit- 
cairn's, upon Holland's being gained from the ocean : 

Tellurem fecere Dii ; sua litora Belgae; 

Immensajque molis opus utrumque fuit; 
Di vacuo sparsas glomerarunt aethere terras, 

Nil ibi, quod operi possit obesse, fuit. 
At Belgis maria et coeli naturaque rerum 

Obstitit; obstantes hi douiuere Deos. 

So much for the hyperbole. We proceed now to those figures 
which lie altogether in the thought ; where the words are taken 
in their common and literal sense. 

Among these, the first place is unquestionably due to Per- 
sonification, or that figure by which we attribute life and action 
to inanimate objects. The technical term for this is prosopopoeia : 
but as personification is of the same import, and more allied to 
our own language, it will be better to use this word. 

It is a figure, the use of which is very extensive, and its foun- 
dation laid deep in human nature. At first view, and when con- 
sidered abstractly, it would appear to be a figure of the utmost 
boldness, and to border on the extravagant and ridiculous. For 
what can seem more remote from the track of reasonable thought, 
than to speak of stones and trees, and fields and rivers, as if they 
were living creatures, and to attribute to them thought and sen- 
sation, affections and actions ? One might imagine this to be no 
more than childish conceit, which no person of taste could relish. 
In fact, however, the case is very different. No such ridiculous 

Press not too much on any part the sphere ; 
Hard were the task thy weight divine to bear : 
Soon would the axis feel the unusual load, 
And, groaning, bend beneath tta' incumbent god ; 
O'er the mid orb more equal shalt thou rise, 
And with a juster balance fix the skies.— -Rctwe. 



PERSONIFICATION. 203 

effect is produced by personification, when properly employed ; 
on the contrary, it is found to be natural and agreeable ; nor is 
any very uncommon degree of passion required, in order to 
make us relish it. All poetry, even in its most gentle and hum- 
ble forms, abounds with it. From prose, it is far from being 
excluded: nay, in common conversation, very frequent ap- 
proaches are made to it. When we say the ground thirsts for 
rain, or the earth smiles with plenty ; when we speak of am- 
bition's being restless, or a disease being deceitful, such expressions 
show the facility with which the mind can accommodate the 
properties of living creatures to things that are inanimate, or to 
abstract conceptions of its own forming. 

Indeed, it is very remarkable, that there is a wonderful 
proneness in human nature to animate all objects. Whether 
this arises from a sort of assimilating principle, from a propen- 
sion to spread a resemblance of ourselves over all other things, 
or from whatever other cause it arises, so it is, that almost 
every emotion which in the least agitates the mind, bestows upon 
its object a momentary idea of life. Let a man, by an unwary 
step, sprain his ancle, or hurt his foot upon a stone, and, in the 
ruffled discomposed moment, he will, sometimes, feel himself 
disposed to break the stone in pieces, or to utter passionate ex- 
pressions against it, as if it had done him an injury. If one has 
been long accustomed to a certain set of objects, which have 
made a strong impression on his imagination ; as to a house, 
where he has passed many agreeable years ; or to fields, and 
trees, and mountains, among which he has often walked with the 
greatest delight : when he is obliged to part with them, espe- 
cially if he has no prospect of ever seeing them again, he can 
scarce avoid having somewhat of the same feeling as when he is 
leaving old friends. They seem endowed with life. They 
become objects of his affection ; and, in the moment of his 
parting, it scarce seems absurd to him, to give vent to his feeling 
in words, and to take a formal adieu. 

So strong is that impression of life which is made upon us, 
by the more magnificent and striking objects of n/iture espe- 
cially, that I doubt not, in the least, of this having been one 
cause of the multiplication of divinities in the heathen world, 
The belief of dryads and naiads, of the genius of the wood, and 
the god of the river, among men of lively imaginations, in the 
early ages of the world, easily arose from this turn of mind. 
When their favourite rural objects had often been animated in 
their fancy, it was an easy transition to attribute to them some 



204 LECTURE XVI. 

real divinity, some unseen power or genius which inhabited 
them, or in some peculiar manner belonged to them. Imagi- 
nation was highly gratified, by thus gaining somewhat to rest 
upon with more stability ; and when belief coincided so much 
with imagination, very slight causes would be sufficient to 
establish it. 

From this deduction may be easily seen how it comes to 
pass, that personification makes so great a figure in all com- 
positions, where imagination or passion have any concern. On 
innumerable occasions, it is the very language of imagination 
and passion, and therefore, deserves to be attended to, and 
examined with peculiar care. There are three different degrees 
of this figure ; which it is necessary to remark and distinguish, 
in order to determine the propriety of its use. The first is, 
when some of the properties or qualities of living creatures are 
ascribed to inanimate objects ; the second, when those inanimate 
objects are introduced as acting like such as have life; and the 
third, when they are represented, either as speaking to us, or as 
listening to what we say to them. 

The first and lowest degree of this figure consists in as- 
cribing to inanimate objects some of the qualities of living crea- 
tures. Where this is done, as is most commonly the case, in 
a word or two, and by way of an epithet added to the object, 
as, "r a raging storm, a deceitful disease, a cruel disaster," &c. it 
raises the style so little, that the humblest discourse will admit 
it without any force. This, indeed, is such an obscure degree 
of personification, that one may doubt whether it deserves the 
name, and might not be classed with simple metaphors, which 
escape in a manner unnoticed. Happily employed, however, it 
sometimes adds beauty and sprightliness to an expression, as in 
this line of Virgil : 

Aut conjurato descendens Dacus ab Istro. — Gear. ii. 497. 

Where the personal epithet, conjurato, applied to the river Istro, 
is infinitely more poetical than if it had been applied to the 
person thus : 

Ant conjuratus descendens Dacus ab Istro. 

A very little taste will make any < ne feel the difference between 
these two lines. 

The next degree of this figure is, when we introduce inani- 
mate objects acting like those that have life. Here we rise a 
step higher, and the personification becomes sensible. Accord- 
ing to the nature of the action, which we attribute to those in- 




PERSONIFICATION. 205 

animate objects, and the particularity with which we describe 
it, such is the strength of the figure. When pursued to any 
length, it belongs only to studied harangues, to highly figured 
and eloquent discourse : when slightly touched, it may be 
admitted into subjects of less elevation. Cicero, for instance, 
speaking of the cases where killing another is lawful in self- 
defence, uses the following words : " Aliquando nobis gladius 
ad occidendum hominem ab ipsis porrigitur legibus." (Orat. 
pro Milone.) The expression is happy. The laws are per- 
sonified, as reaching forth their hand to give us a sword for 
putting one to death. Such short personifications as these 
may be admitted, even into moral treatises, or works of cool 
reasoning ; and provided they be easy and not strained, and 
that we be not cloyed with too frequent returns of them, , they 
have a good effect on style, and render it both strong and 
lively. 

The genius of our language gives us an advantage in the use 
of this figure. As, with us, no substantive nouns have gender, 
or are masculine and feminine, except the proper names of male 
and female creatures, by giving a gender to any inanimate 
object, or abstract idea, that is, in place of the pronoun il, using 
the personal pronouns, he or she, we presently raise the style, 
and begin personification. In solemn discourse, this may often 
be done to good purpose, when speaking of religion, or virtue, 
or our country, or any such object of dignity. I shall give a 
remarkably fine example from a sermon of Bishop Sherlock's, 
where we shall see natural religion beautifully personified, and 
be able to judge from it of the spirit and grace which this figure, 
when well conducted, bestows on a discourse. I must take 
notice, at the same time, that it is an instance of this figure, 
carried as far as prose, even in its highest elevation, will admit, 
and, therefore, suited only to compositions where the great 
efforts of eloquence are allowed. The author is comparing 
together our Saviour and Mahomet : " Go," says he, " to your 
Natural Religion ; lay before her Mahomet, and his disciples, 
arrayed in armour and blood, riding in triumph over the spoils 
of thousands who fell by his victorious sword. Show her the 
cities which he set in flames, the countries which he ravaged and* 
destroyed, and the miserable distress of all the inhabitants of the 
earth. When she has viewed him in this scene, carry her into 
his retirement ; show her the prophet's chamber ; his concubines 
and his wives ; and .let her hear him allege revelation, and a 
divine commission, to justify his adultery and lust.. When she 



206 LECTURE XVI. 

is tired with this prospect, then show her the blessed Jesus, 
humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men. Let her 
see him in his most retired privacies ; let her follow him to the 
mount, and hear his devotions and supplications to God. Carry her 
to his table to view his poor fare, and hear his heavenly discourse. 
Let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider the patience 
with which he endured the scoffs and reproaches of his enemies. 
Lead her to his cross ; let her view him in the agony of death, 
and hear his last prayer for his persecutors; Father, forgive 
them, for they know not what they do ! — When Natural Religion 
has thus viewed both, ask her, which is the prophet of God ? 
But her answer we have already had, when she saw part of this 
scene, through the eyes of the centurion, who attended at the 
cross. By him she spoke, and said, Truly this Man was the Son 
of God."* This is more than elegant ; it is truly sublime. The 
whole passage is animated ; and the figure rises at the con- 
clusion, when Natural Religion, who, before, was only a spec- 
tator, is introduced as speaking by the centurion's voice. It has 
the better effect too, that it occurs at the conclusion of a discourse, 
where we naturally look for most warmth and dignity. Did 
Bishop Sherlock's sermons, or, indeed, any English sermons 
whatever, afford us many passages equal to this, we should 
oftener have recourse to them for instances of the beauty of 
composition. 

Hitherto we have spoken of prose ; in poetry personifica- 
tions of this kind are extremely frequent, and are, indeed, the 
life and soul of it. We expect to find every thing animated in 
the descriptions of a poet who has a lively fancy. Accordingly 
Homer, the father and prince of poets, is remarkable for the use 
of this figure. War, peace, darts, spears, towns, rivers, .every 
thing, in short, is alive in his writings. The same is the case 
with Milton and Shakespeare. No personification, in any 
author, is more striking, or introduced on a more proper occa- 
sion, than the following of Milton's, on occasion of Eve's eating 
the forbidden fruit : 

So saying, her rash band, in evil hour, 

Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck'd, she eat; 

Earth felt the wound ; and Nature, from her seat, 

SighingTthrough all her works, gave signs of woe, 

ThaTall was lost. Par. Lost, ix. 780. 

All the circumstances and ages of men, poverty, riches, youth, 
old age, all the dispositions and passions, melancholy, love, 

* Bishop Sherlock's Sermons, vol. i. disc. 9. 



PERSONIFICATION. 207 

grief, contentment, are capable of being personified in poetry, 
with great propriety. Of this, we meet with frequent examples 
in Milton's Allegro and Penseroso, Parnell's Hymn to Content- 
ment, Thomson's Seasons, and all the good poets : nor indeed, 
is it easy to set any bounds to personifications of this kind, in 
poetry. 

One of the greatest pleasures we receive from poetry, is, to 
find ourselves always in the midst of our fellows ; and to see 
every thing thinking, feeling, and acting, as we ourselves do. 
This is perhaps the principal charm of this sort of figured style, 
that it introduces us into society with all nature, and interests 
us, even in inanimate objects, by forming a connection between 
them and us, through that sensibility which it ascribes to them. 
This is exemplified in the following beautiful passage of Thom- 
son's Summer, wherein the life which he bestows upon all 
nature, when describing the effects of the rising sun, renders the 
scenery uncommonly gay and interesting : 

But yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud. 
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow 
Tipt with ethereal gold, his near approach 

Betoken glad. — 

By thee refined, 

In brisker measures, the relucent stream 
Frisks o'er the mead. The precipice abrupt, 
Projecting horror on the blacken'd flood, 
Softens at thy return. The desert joys, 
Wildly through all his melancholy bounds ; 
Rude ruins glitter ; and the briny deep, 
Seen from some pointed promontory's top, 
Reflects from every fluctuating wave 
A glance extensive as the day. 

The same effect is remarkable in that fine passage of Milton : 

To the nuptial bower 

I led her blushing like the morn. All heaven 
And happy constellations, on that hour, 
Shed their selectest influence. The earth 
Gav e sig ns of gratulation, and each hill. 
Joyous the birds : fresh gales, and gentle airs, 
WJi isper'd it to the woods, and from their wings 
Flung rose, flung odour from the spicy shrub, ~~ — 
Disporting. 

The third and highest degree of this figure remains to be 
mentioned, when inanimate objects are introduced, not only as 
feeling and acting, but as speaking to us, or hearing and listen- 
ing when we address ourselves to them. This, though on 
several occasions far from being unnatural, is, however, more 
difficult in the execution, than the other kinds of personification 



208 LECTURE XVI. 

For this is plainly ths boldest of all rhetorical figures ; it is the 
stylo of strong passion only; and, therefore, never to be at- 
tempted, unless when the mind is considerably heated and agi- 
tated. A slight personification of some inanimate thing, acting 
as if it had life, can be relished by the mind, in the midst of 
cool description, and when its ideas are going on in the ordinary 
train. But it must be in a state of violent emotion, and have 
departed considerably from its common track of thought, before 
it can so far realize the personification of an insensible object, 
as to conceive it listening to what we say, or making any return 
to us. All strong passions, however* have a tendency to use 
this figure ; not only love, anger, and indignation, but even 
those which are seemingly more dispiriting, such as grief, re- 
morse, and melancholy. For all passions struggle for vent, and 
if they can find no other object, will, rather than be silent, pour 
themselves forth to woods, and rocks, and the most insensible 
things ; especially, if these be in any degree connected with the 
causes and objects that have thrown the mind into this agitation. 
Hence, in poetry, where the greatest liberty is allowed to the 
language of passion, it is easy to produce many beautiful exam- 
ples of this figure. Milton affords us an extremely fine one, in 
that moving and tender address which Eve makes to Paradise, 
just before she is compelled to leave it. 

Oh ! unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! 
Must 1 thus leave thee, P aradise ! thus leave 
Thee, n ative soi l, these happy walks, and shades, 
Fit haunt of Gods ! where I had hope to spend 
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day, 
Which must be mortal to us both. O flowers ! 
That never will in other climate grow, 
My early visitation and my last 
At ev'n, which I bred up with tender hand, 
From your first op'ning buds, and gave you names ! 
Who now shall rear .you t o the sun, or rank 
Your tribes, and water from th' ambrosial fount ! 

""" Book ii. 1. 268. 

This is altogether the language of nature, and of female passion. 
It is observable, that all plaintive passions are peculiarly prona , 
to the use of this figure. The complaints which Philoctetes, in 
Sophocles, pours out to the rocks and caves of Lemnos, amidst 
the excess of his grief and despair, are remarkably fine examples 
of it.* And there are frequent examples, not in poetry only 

®y\owv optiwv, Sj wxTtxppwysg impou, 
T/»7» rub', ojj yxp a'\?vov ciJ' o'toj Xsya.'. 
AwcxXa/o/taj wapovat to"c siiu^inv, &C — v. 936 



PERSONIFICATION. 2<W 

but in real life, of persons, when just about to suffer death, 
taking a passionate farewell of the sun, moon, and stars, or other 
sensible objects around them. 

There are two great rules for the management of this sort 
of personification. The first rule is, never to attempt it, unless 
when prompted by a strong passion, and never to continue it when 
the passion begins to flag. It is one of those high ornaments, 
which can only find place in the most warm and spirited parts 
of composition ; and there, too, must be employed with modera- 
tion. 

The second rule is, never to personify any object in this way, 
but such as has some dignity in itself, and can make a proper 
figure in this elevation to which we raise it. The observance of 
this rule is required, even in the lower degrees of personifica- 
tion ; but still more, when an address is made to the personified 
object. To address the corpse of a deceased friend, is natural ; 
but to address the clothes which he wore, introduces mean and 
degrading ideas. So also, addressing the several parts of one's 
body, as if they were animated, is not congruous to the dignity 
of passion. For this reason, I must condemn the following 
passage, in a very beautiful poem of Mr. Pope's, Eloisa to 
Abelard. 

Dear fatal name ' rest ever unreveal'd, 
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd ! 
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 
Where, mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies : 
Oh ! write it not, my hand ! — his name appears 
Already written — Blot it out, my tears! 

Here are several different objects and parts of the body personi- 
fied ; and each of them is addressed or spoken to ; let us consider 
with what propriety. The first is, the name of Abelard : " Dear 
fatal name ! rest ever," &c. To this no reasonable objection 
can be made. For, as the name of a person often stands for the 
person himself, and suggests the same ideas, it can bear this 
personification with sufficient dignity. Next, Eloisa speaks to 
herself, and personifies her heart for this purpose : " Hide it, my 
heart, within that close," &c. As the heart is a dignified part of 
the human frame, and is often put for the mind or affections, this 
also may pass without blame. But, when from her heart she 

" O mountains, rivers, rocks, and savage herds, 
To you I speak ! to you alone, I now 
Must breathe my sorrows ! you are wont to hear 
My sad complaints, and 1 will tell you all 
That I have suffered from Achilles' son." — Franklin 
P 



210 LECTURE XVI. 

passes to her hand, and tells her hand not to write his name, 
this is forced and unnatural ; a personified hand is low, and not 
in the style of true passion ; and the figure becomes still worse, 
when, in the last place, she exhorts her tears to blot out what 
her hand had written, " Oh ! write it not," &c. There is, in 
these two lines, an air of epigrammatic conceit, which native 
passion never suggests; and which is altogether unsuitable to the 
tenderness which breathes through the rest of that excellent poem. 
In prose compositions, this figure requires to be used with 
still greater moderation and delicacy. The same liberty is not 
allowed to the imagination there, as in poetry. The same assis- 
tances cannot be obtained for raising passion to its proper height 
by the force of numbers, and the glow of style. However, ad- 
dresses to inanimate objects are not excluded from prose ; but 
have their place only in the higher species of oratory. A public 
speaker may on some occasions very properly address religion 
or virtue ; or his native country, or some city or province, which 
has suffered perhaps great calamities, or been the scene of some 
memorable action. But we must remember, that as such ad- 
dresses are among the highest efforts of eloquence, they should 
never be attempted, unless by persons of more than ordinary 
genius. For if the orator fails in his design of moving our pas 
sions by them, he is sure of being laughed at. Of all frigid 
things, the most frigid are the awkward and unseasonable at • 
tempts sometimes made towards such kinds of personification, 
especially if they be long continued. We see the writer or 
speaker toiling, and labouring to express the language of some 
passion, which he neither feels himself, nor can make us feel. 
We remain not only cold, but frozen ; and are at full leisure to 
criticise on the ridiculous figure which the personified object 
makes, when we ought to have been transported with a glow of 
enthusiasm. Some of the French writers, particularly Bossuet 
and Flechier, in their sermons and funeral orations, have at- 
tempted and executed this figure, not without warmth and 
dignity. Their works are exceedingly worthy of being con- 
sulted, for instances of this, and of several other ornaments of 
style. Indeed, the vivacity and ardour of the French genius is 
more suited to this bold species of oratory, than tiie more cor- 
rect but less animated genius of the British, who in their prose 
works very rarely attempt any of the high figures of eloquence.* 

• In the " Oraisons Funebres de M. Bossuet," ■which I consider as one of 
the master-pieces of modem eloquence, apostrophes and addresses to personified 
objects frequently occur, and are supported with much spirit. Thus, for instance 




APOSTROPHE. 211 

So much for personifications or prosopopoeia, in all its different 
forms. 

Apostrophe is a figure so much of the same kind, that it will 
not require many words. It is an address to a real person ; but 
one who is either absent or dead, as if he were present and 
listening to us. It is so much allied to an address to inanimate 
objects personified, that both these figures are sometimes called 
apostrophes. However, the proper apostrophe is in boldness 
one degree lower than the address to personified objects ; for it 
certainly requires a less effort of imagination to suppose persons 
present who are dead or absent, than to animate insensible 
beings, and direct our discourse to them. Both figures are sub- 
ject to the same rule of being prompted by passion, in order to 
render them natural : for both are the language of passion or 
strong emotions only. Among the poets apostrophe is frequent; 
as in Virgil : 



-Pereunt Hypanisque Dymasque 



Confixi a sociis ; nee te tua plurima, Pantheu, 

Labentem pietas, nee Apollinis infa'a texit!* ./En. ii. 428. 

in the fnneral oration of Mary of Austria, Queen of France, the an.tior addresses 
Algiers, in the prospect of the advantage which the arms of Louis XIV. were to 
gain over it : " Avant lui la France, presque sans vaisseaux, tenoit en vain aux 
deux mers. Maintenant, on les voit couvertes depuis le levant jusqu'au cou- 
chant de nos flottes victorieuses ; et la hardiesse Francoise porte partout la 
terreur avec le nom de Louis. Tu cederas, tu tomberas sous ce vainqueur, 
Alger ! riche des depouilles de la Chretiente. Tu disois en ton coeur avare, Je 
tiens la mer sous mes loix, et les nations sont ma proie. La legerete de tes 
vaisseaux te donnoit de la confiance. Mais tu te verras attaque dans tes 
murailles, comme un oiseau ravissant qu'on iroit chercher parmi ses rochers 
et dans son nid, ou il partage son butin a ses petis. Tu rends deja tes esclaves. 
Louis a bris6 les fers, dont tu accablois ses snjets." &c. In another passage of 
the same oration, he thus apostrophizes the Isle of Pheasants, which had been 
rendered famous by being the scene of those conferences, in which the treaty of 
the Pyrennees between France and Spain, and the marriage of this princess with 
the king of France, were concluded. " Isle pacifique, ou se doivent terminer les 
differends de deux grands empires a qui tu sers de limites : isle eternellement 

memorable par les conferences de deux grands ministres. Auguste journee ou 

deux fieres nations, longtemps ennemies et alors reconciliees par Marie Thereset 
s'avancent snr leurs confins, leurs rois a leur tele, non plus pour se combattre, 
mais pour s'embrasser. — Fetes sacrees, manage fortune, voile nuptial, benedic- 
tion, sacrifice, puis-je meler aujourd'hui vos ceremonies et vos pompes avec ces 
pompes funebres, et le comble des grandeurs avec leurs ruines !" In the funeral 
oration of Henrietta, queen of England, (which is perhaps the noblest of all his 
compositions,) after recounting all she had done to support her unfortunate hus- 
band, he concludes with this beautiful apostrophe : " O mere ! O femme ! O reine 
admirable et digne d'une meilleure fortune, si les fortunes de. la terre 6toient 
quelque chose ! Enfin il faut ceder a votre sort. Vous avez assez soutenu l'etat, 
qui est attaque par une force invincible et divine. II ne reste plus desormais, 
tinon que vous teniez ferme parmi ses ruines." 

* Nor, Pantheus ! thee, thy mitre, nor the bands 

Of awful Phoebus, sav'd from impious hands. — Dryden. 

p 2 



•>t* LECTURE XVI. 

The poems of Ossian are full of the most beautiful instances 
of this figure : " Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid 
of Inistore ; bend thy fair head over the waves, thou fairer 
than the ghost of the hills, when it moves in a sunbeam at 
noon over the silence of Morven ! He is fallen ! thy youth is 
low ; pale beneath the sword of Cuthullin !"* Quintilian affords 
us a very fine example in prose ; when, in the beginning of his 
sixth book, deploring the untimely death of his son, which had 
happened during the course of the work, he makes a very mov- 
ing and tender apostrophe to him. " Nam quo ille animo, qua 
medicorum admiratione, mensium octo valetudinem tulit ? ut me 
in supremis consolatus est? quam etiam deficiens, jamque 
non noster, ipsum ilium alienatae mentis errorem circa solas 
literas habuit? Tuosne ego, O meae spes inanes ! labentes 
oculos, tuum fugientem spiritum vidi? Tuum corpus frigi- 
dum, exsangue complexus, animam recipere, auramque com- 
munem haurire amplius potui ? — Tene consulari nuper adoptione 
ad omnium spes honorum patris admotum, te avunculo prsetori 
generum destinatum, te omnium spe Atticse eloquentiae candi- 
datum, parens superstes tantum ad pcenas amisi !"•{• In this 
passage, Quintilian shows the true genius of an orator, as much 
as he does elsewhere that of the critic. 

For such bold figures of discourse as strong personifications, 
addresses to personified objects, and apostrophes, the glowing 
imagination of the ancient oriental nations was particularly 
fitted. Hence, in the sacred Scriptures, we find some very 
remarkable instances : " O thou sword of the Lord f how long 
will it be ere thou be quiet ! put thyself up into the scabbard, 
rest and be still ! How can it be quiet, seeing the Lord hath 
given it a charge against Ashkelon, and against the sea-shore ? 
there he hath appointed it."J There is one passage in par- 

• Fingal, Book I. 

t " With what spirit, and how much to the admiration of the physicians, 
did he bear throughout eight months his lingering distress ! With what tender 
attention did he study, even in the last extremity, to comfort me : and, when no 
longer himself, how affecting was it to behold the disordered efforts of his 
wandering mind, wholly employed on subjects of literature ! Ah ! my frustrated 
and fallen hopes ! have I then beheld your closing eyes, and heard the last groan 
issue from your lips? After having embraced your cold and breathless body, how 
was it in my power to draw the vital air, or continue to drag a miserable life ! 
W hen I had just beheld you raised by consular adoption to the prospect of all 
your father's honours, destined to be son-in-law to your uncle the Praetor, pointed 
out by general expectation as the successful candidate for the prize of Attic elo- 
quence, in this moment of your opening honours, must I lose you for ever, and 
remain an unhappy parent, surviving only to suffer woe i" 

X Jeremiah, xlvii. 6, 7. 



APOSTROPHE. 213 

titular, which I must not omit to mention, because it contains 
a greater assemblage of sublime ideas, of bold and daring figures, 
than is perhaps any where to be met with. It is in the four- 
teenth chapter of Isaiah, where the prophet thus describes the 
fall of the Assyrian empire : " Thou shalt take up this proverb 
against the king of Babylon, and say, How hath the oppressor 
ceased ! the golden city ceased ! The Lord hath broken the 
staff of the wicked, and the sceptre of the rulers. He who smote 
the people in wrath with a continual stroke : he that ruled 
the nations in anger, is persecuted, and none hindereth. The 
whole earth is at rest, and is quiet: they break forth into 
singing. Yea, the fir-trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of 
Lebanon, saying, Since thou art laid down, no feller is come 
up against us. Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet 
Ihee at thy coming : it stirreth up the dead for thee, even all the 
chief ones of the earth : it hath raised up from their thrones all 
the kings of the nations. All they shall speak, and say unto 
thee, Art thou also become weak as we ? Art thou become like 
unto us ? Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, and the 
noise of thy viols : the worm is spread under thee, and the worms 
cover thee. How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of 
the morning ! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst 
weaken the nations ! For thou hast said in thine heart, I will 
ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of 
God ; I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the 
sides of the north. I will ascend above the heights of the clouds, 
I will be like the Most High. Yet thou shalt be brought down 
to hell, to the sides of the pit. They that see thee shall narrowly 
look upon thee, and consider thee, saying, Is this the man that 
made the earth to tremble, that did shake kingdoms ? that made 
the world as a wilderness, and destroyed the cities thereof? that 
opened not the house of his prisoners ? All the kings of the na- 
tions, even all of them lie in glory, every one in his own house. 
But thou art cast out of thy grave, like an abominable branch : 
and as the raiment of those that are slain, thrust through with a 
sword, that go down to the stones of the pit, as a carcass trod- 
den under feet." This whole passage is full of sublimity. Every 
object is animated ; a variety of personages are introduced : wo 
hear the Jews, the fir-trees, and cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts 
of departed kings, the king of Babylon himself, and those who 
look upon his body, all speaking in their order, and acting their 
different parts without confusion 



214 



LECTURE XVII 

COMPARISON, ANTITHESIS, INTERROGATION, EXCLAMATION, 
AND OTHER FIGURES OF SPEECH. 

We are still engaged in the consideration of figures of 
speech ; which, as they add much to the beauty of style when 
properly employed, and are at the same time liable to be greatly 
abused, require a careful discussion. As it would be tedious to 
dwell on all the variety of figurative expressions which rhetori- 
cians have enumerated, I chose to select the capital figures, such 
as occur most frequently, and to make my remarks on these ; the 
principles and rules laid down concerning them will sufficiently 
direct us to the use of the rest, either in prose or poetry. Of 
metaphor, which is the most common of them all, I treated 
fully ; and in the last lecture, I discoursed of hyperbole, per- 
sonification, and apostrophe. This lecture will nearly finish 
what remains on the head of figures. 

Comparison, or simile, is what I am to treat of first ; a 
figure frequently employed both by poets and prose-writers, for 
the ornament of composition. In a former lecture, I explained 
fully the difference betwixt this and metaphor. A metaphor is a 
comparison implied, but not expressed as such ; as when I say, 
" Achilles is a lion," meaning that he resembles one in courage 
or strength. A comparison is, when the resemblance between 
two objects is expressed in form, and generally pursued more 
fully than the nature of a metaphor admits ; as when I say, 
" The actions of princes are like those great rivers, the course 
of which every one beholds, but their springs have been seen by 
few." This slight instance will show, that a happy comparison 
is a kind of sparkling ornament, which adds not a little lustre 
and beauty to discourse ; and hence such figures are termed by 
Cicero, " orationis lumina." 

The pleasure we take in comparisons is just and natural. 
We may remark three different sources whence it arises. First, 
from the pleasure which nature has annexed to that act of the 
mind by which we compare any two objects together, trace re- 
semblances among those that are different, and differences among 
those that resemble each other; a pleasure, the final cause of 
which is, to prompt us to remark and observe, and thereby to 
make us advance in useful knowledge. This operation of the 
mind is naturally and universally agreeable ; as appears from 



COMPARISON. 215 

the delight which even children have in comparing things to 
gether, as soon as they are capable of attending to the objects 
that surround them. Secondly, the pleasure of comparison 
arises from the illustration which the simile employed gives to the 
principal object ; from the clearer view of it which it presents ; 
or the more strong impression of it which it stamps upon the 
mind ; and thirdly, it arises from the introduction of a new, and 
commonly a splendid object, associated to the principal one of 
which we treat ; and from the agreeable picture which that 
object presents to the fancy ; new scenes being thereby brought 
into view, which, without the assistance of this figure, we could 
not have enjoyed. 

All comparisons whatever may be reduced under two heads, 
explaining and embellishing comparisons. For when a writer li- 
kens the object of which he treats to any other thing, it always 
is, or at least always should be, with a view either to make us 
understand that object more distinctly, or to dress it up, and 
adorn it. All manner of subjects admit of explaining compari- 
sons. Let an author be reasoning ever so strictly, or treating 
the most abstruse point in philosophy, he may very properly in- 
troduce a comparison, merely with a view to make his subject 
better understood. Of this nature is the following in Mr. Har- 
ris's Hermes, employed to explain a very abstract point, the dis- 
tinction between the powers of sense and imagination in the hu- 
man mind, " As wax," says he, " would not be adequate to the 
purpose of signature, if it had not the power to retain as well as 
to receive the impression, the same holds of the soul with respect 
to sense and imagination. Sense is its receptive power ; imagi- 
nation its retentive. Had it sense without imagination, it would 
not be as wax, but as water, where, though all impressions be 
instantly made, yet as soon as they are made they are instantly 
lost." In comparisons of this nature, the understanding is con- 
cerned much more than the fancy : and therefore the only rules 
to be observed, with respect to them, are, that they be clear, and 
that they be useful ; that they tend to render our conception of 
the principal object more distinct ; and that they do not lead our 
view aside and bewilder it with any false light. 

But embellishing comparisons, introduced not so much with 
a view to inform and instruct, as to adorn the subject of which 
we treat, are those with which we are chiefly concerned at pre- 
sent, as figures of speech ; and those, indeed, which most fre- 
quently occur. Resemblance, as I before mentioned, is the foun- 
dation of this figure. We must not, however, take resemblance, 



216 LECTURE XVII. 

in too strict a sense, for actual similitude and likeness of ap- 
pearance. Two objects may sometimes be very happily com- 
pared to one another, though they resemble each other, strictly 
speaking, in nothing ; only because they agree in the effects 
which they produce upon the mind ; because they raise a train 
of similar, or, what may be called, concordant ideas ; so that the 
remembrance of the one, when recalled, serves to strengthen the 
impression made by the other. For example, to describe the 
nature of soft and melancholy music, Ossian says; " The music 
of Carryl was, like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant 
and mournful to the soul." This is happy and delicate. Yet, 
surely, no kind of music has any resemblance to a feeling of the 
mind, such as the memory of past joys. Had it been compared 
to the voice of the nightingale, or the murmur of the stream, as 
it would have been by some ordinary poet, the likeness would 
have been more strict ; but, by founding his simile upon the ef- 
fect which Carryl's music produced, the poet, while he conveys 
a very tender image, gives us, at the same time, a much stronger 
impression of the nature and strain of that music : " Like the 
memory of joys that are past, pleasant, and mournful to the 
soul." 

In general, whether comparisons be founded on the simili- 
tude of the two objects compared, or on some analogy and 
agreement in their effects, the fundamental requisite of a com- 
parison is, that it shall serve to illustrate the object for the sake 
of which it is introduced and to give us a stronger conception of it. 
Some little excursions of fancy may be permitted, in pursuing the 
simile ; but they must never deviate far from the principal object. 
If it be a great and noble one, every circumstance in the com- 
parison must tend to aggrandize it ; if it be a beautiful one, to 
render it more amiable ; if terrible, to fill us with more awe. 
But to be a little more particular : the rules to be given concern- 
ing comparisons, respect chiefly two articles ; the propriety of 
their introduction, and the nature of the objects whence they 
are taken. 

First, the propriety of their introduction. From what has 
been already said of comparisons, it appears that they are not, 
like the figures of which I treated in the last lecture, the lan- 
guage of strong passion. No ; they are the language of ima- 
gination rather than of passion : of an imagination sprightly, 
indeed, and warmed ; but undisturbed by any violent or agita- 
ting emotion. Strong passion is too severe to admit this play of 
fancy. It has no leisure to cast about for resembling objects ; 



COMPARISON. 217 

it dwells on that object which has seized and taken possession 
of the soul. It is too much occupied and filled by it, to turn its 
view aside, or to fix its attention on any other thing. An author, 
therefore, can scarcely commit a greater fault, than, in the midst 
of passion, to introduce a simile. Metaphorical expression may 
be allowable in such a situation ; though even this may be car- 
ried too far : but the pomp and solemnity of a formal compari- 
son is altogether a stranger to passion. It changes the key in a 
moment : relaxes and brings down the mind ; and shows us a 
writer perfectly at his ease, while he is personating some other, 
who is supposed to be under the torment of agitation. Our 
writers of tragedies are very apt to err here. In some of Mr. 
Rowe's plays, these flowers of similes have been strewed un- 
seasonably. Mr. Addison's Cato, too, is justly censurable in 
this respect ; as, when Porcius, just after Lucia had bid him 
farewell for ever, and when he should naturally have been re- 
presented as in the most violent anguish, makes his reply in a 
studied and affected comparison : 

Thus o'er the dying lamp the unsteady flame 
Hangs quivering on a point, leaps oft' by fits, 
And falls again, as loth to quit its hold, 
Thou must not go ; my soul still hovers o'er thee, 
And can't get loose. 

Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote from the 
language of nature on such occasions. 

However as comparison is not the style of strong passion, 
so neither, when employed for embellishment, is it the language 
of a mind wholly unmoved. It is a figure of dignity, and always 
requires some elevation in the subject, in order to make it pro- 
per : for it supposes the imagination to be uncommonly enliven- 
ed, though the heart be not agitated by passion. In a word, the 
proper place of comparisons lies in the middle region between 
the highly pathetic, and the very humble style. This is a wide 
field, and gives ample range to the figure. But even this field 
we must take care not to overstock with it. For, as we before 
said, it is a sparkling ornament, and all things that sparkle, 
dazzle and fatigue, if they recur too often. Similes should, 
even in poetry, be used with moderation, but, in prose writings, 
much more ; otherwise, the style will become disagreeably florid, 
and the ornament lose its virtue and effect. 

I proceed, next, to the rules that relate to objects whence 
comparisons should be drawn, supposing them introduced in 
their proper place. 



218 LECTURfc, XVII. 

In the first p.ace, they must not be drawn from things which 
have too near and obvious a resemblance to the object with 
which we compare them. The great pleasure of the act of com- 
paring lies, in discovering likenesses among things of different 
species, where we could not, at the first glance, expect a re- 
semblance. There is little art or ingenuity in pointing out the 
resemblance of two objects, that are so much akin, or lie so near 
to one another in nature, that every one sees they must be alike. 
When Milton compares Satan's appearance, after his fall, to 
that of the sun suffering an eclipse, and affrighting the nations 
with portentous darkness, we are struck with the happiness and 
the dignity of the similitude. But when he compares Eve's 
bower in Paradise, to the arbour of Pomona ; or Eve herself to 
a dryad, or wood-nymph, we receive little entertainment : as 
every one sees, that one arbour must, of course, in several 
respects resemble another arbour, and one beautiful woman 
another beautiful woman. 

Among similes faulty through too great obviousness of the 
likeness, we must likewise rank those which are taken from 
objects become trite and familiar in poetical language. Such 
are the similes of a hero to a lion, of a person in sorrow to a 
flower drooping its head, of violent passion to a tempest, of 
chastity to snow, of virtue to the sun or the stars, and many 
more of this kind, with which we are sure to find modern 
writers, of second-rate genius, abounding plentifully ; handed 
down from every writer of verses to another, as by hereditary 
right. These comparisons were, at first, perhaps, very proper 
for the purposes to which they are applied. In the ancient 
original poets, who took them directly from nature, not from 
their predecessors, they had beauty. But they are now beaten ; 
our ears are so accustomed to them, that they give no amuse- 
ment to the fancy. There is, indeed, no mark by which we can 
more readily distinguish a poet of true genius, from one of a 
barren imagination, than by the strain of their comparisons. 
All who call themselves poets affect them : but, whereas a mere 
versifier copies no new image from nature, which appears, to his 
uninventive genius, exhausted by those who have gone before 
him, and, therefore, contents himself with humbly following their 
track ; to an author of real fancy, nature seems to unlock, spon- 
taneously, her hidden stores ; and the eye " quick glancing from 
earth to heaven" discovers new shapes and forms, new like- 
nesses between objects unobserved before, which render his 
similes original, expressive, and lively 



COMPARISON. 219 

But, in the second place, as comparisons ought not to be 
founded on likenesses too obvious, still less ought they to be 
founded on those which are too faint and remote. For these, in 
place of assisting, strain the fancy to comprehend them, and 
throw no light upon the subject. It is also to be observed, 
that a comparison, which, in the principal circumstances, carries 
a sufficiently near resemblance, may become unnatural and ob- 
scure, if pushed too far. Nothing is more opposite to the de- 
sign of this figure, than to hunt after a great number of 
coincidences in minute points, merely to show how far the poet's 
wit can stretch the resemblance. This is Mr. Cowley's common 
fault ; whose comparisons generally run out so far, as to become 
rather a studied exercise of wit, than an illustration of the prin- 
cipal object. We need only open his works, his odes especially, 
to find instances every where. 

In the third place, the object from which a comparison is 
drawn, should never be an unknown object, or one of which few 
people can form clear ideas : " Ad inferendam rebus lucem," 
says Quintilian, " repertse sunt similitudines. Prascipue, igitur, 
est custodiendum ne id quod similitudinis gratia adscivimus, aut 
obscurum sit, aut ignotum. Debet enim, quod illustrandaa 
alterius rei gratia assumitur, ipsum esse clarius eo quod illumi- 
nat."* Comparisons, therefore, founded on philosophical dis- 
coveries, or on any thing with which persons of a certain trade 
only, or a certain profession, are conversant, attain not their 
proper effect. They should be taken from those illustrious, 
noted objects, which most of the readers either have seen, or 
can strongly conceive. This leads me to remark a fault of 
which modern poets are very apt to be guilty. The ancients 
took their similes from that face of nature, and that class of 
objects, with which they and their readers were acquainted. 
Hence lions, and wolves, and serpents, were fruitful, and very 
proper sources of similes amongst them j and these having be- 
come a sort of consecrated, classical images, are very commonly 
adopted by the moderns : injudiciously, however, for the pro- 
priety of them is now in a great measure lost. It is only at 
second hand, and by description, that we are acquainted with 
many of those objects ; and, to most readers of poetry, it were 
more to the purpose to describe lions, or serpents, by similes 

• " Comparisons have been introduced into discourse for the sake of throwing 
light on the subject. We must, therefore, be much on our guard, not to employ, 
as the ground of our simile, any object which is either obscure or unknown. 
That, surely, which is used for the purpose of illustrating some other thing, ought 
to be more obvious and plain, than the thing intended to be illustrated."— viii. 3. 72. 



220 LECTURE XVII. 

taken from men, than to describe men by lions. Now-a-day i, 
we can more easily form the conception of a fierce combat be- 
tween two men, than between a bull and a tiger. Every country 
has a scenery peculiar to itself; and the imagery of every good 
poet will exhibit it. The introduction of unknown objects, or of 
a foreign scenery, betrays a poet copying, not after nature, but 
from other writers. I have only to observe further, 

In the fourth place, that, in compositions of a serious or 
elevated kind, similes should never be taken from low or mean 
objects. These are degrading ; whereas, similes are commonly 
intended to embellish, and to dignify ; and, therefore, unless in 
burlesque writings, or where similes are introduced purposely 
to vilify and diminish an object, mean ideas should never be 
presented to us. Some of Homer's comparisons have been 
taxed, without reason, on this account. For it is to be remem- 
bered, that the meanness or dignity of objects depends, in a 
great degree, on the ideas and manners of the age wherein we 
live. Many similes, therefore, drawn from the incidents of rural 
life, which appear low to us, had abundance of dignity in those 
simpler ages of antiquity. 

I have now considered such of the figures of speech as 
seemed most to merit a full and particular discussion : meta- 
phor, hyperbole, personification, apostrophe, and comparison. 
A few more yet remain to be mentioned ; the proper use and 
conduct of which will be easily understood from the principles 
already laid down. 

As Comparison is founded on the resemblance, so Antithesis 
on the contrast or opposition of two objects. Contrast has 
always this effect, to make each of the contrasted objects appear 
in the stronger light. White, for instance, never appears so 
bright as when it is opposed to black ; and when both are 
viewed together. Antithesis, therefore, may on many occasions 
be employed to advantage, in order to strengthen the impression 
which we intend that any object should make. Thus Cicero, 
in his oration for Milo, representing the improbability of Milo*s 
forming a design to take away the life of Clodius, at a time when 
all circumstances were unfavourable to such a design, and after 
he had let other opportunities slip, when he could have executed 
the same design, if he had formed it, with much more ease and 
safety, heightens our conviction of this improbability by a skilful 
use of this figure : " Quern igitur cum omnium gratia interficere 
noluit, hunc voluit cum aliquorum querela? Quern jure, quern 
loco, quern tempore, quern impune, non est ausus, hunc injuria, 



ANTITHESIS. 221 

iniquo loco, alieno tempore, periculo capitis, non dubitavit 
occidere ?"* In order to render an antithesis more complete, 
it is always of advantage, that the words and members of the 
sentence expressing the contrasted objects, be, as in this in- 
stance of Cicero's, similarly constructed, and made to correspond 
to each other. This leads us to remark the contrast more, by 
setting the things which we oppose more clearly over agains 
eacli other ; in the same manner as when we contrast a black 
and a white object, in order to perceive the full difference o 
their colour, we would choose to have both objects of the same 
bulk, and placed in the same light. Their resemblance to each 
other, in certain circumstances, makes their disagreement in 
others more palpable. 

At the same time, I must observe, that the frequent use of 
antithesis, especially where the opposition of the words is nice 
and quaint, is apt to render style disagreeable. Such a sentence 
as the following, from Seneca, does very well, where it stands 
alone : " Si quern volueris esse divitem, non est quod augeas 
divitias, sed minuas cupiditates."-}- Or this : " Si ad naturam 
vives, nunquam eris pauper ; si ad opio'.onem, nunquam dives. "^ 
A maxim, or moral saying, properly enough receives this form ; 
botli because it is supposed to be the fruit of meditation, and 
because it is designed to be engraven on the memory, which 
recalls it more easily by the help of such contrasted expressions. 
But where a string of such sentences succeed each other ; where 
this becomes an author's favourite and prevailing manner of 
expressing himself, his style is faulty : and it is upon this account 
Seneca has been often, and justly, censured. Such a style ap- 
pears too studied and laboured ; it gives us the impression of 
an author attending more to his manner of saying things, than 
to the things themselves which he says. Dr. Young, though a 
writer of real genius, was too fond of antithesis. In his Estimate 
of Human Life, we find whole passages that run in such a strain 
as this : " The peasant complains aloud ; the courtier in secret 

* " Is it credible that, when he declined putting Clodius to death with the 
consent of all, he would choose to do it with the disapprobation of many Can 
yon believe that the person whom he scrupled to slay, when he might have done 
so with full justice, in a convenient place, at a proper time, with secure im- 
punity, he made no scruple to murder against justice, in an unfavourable place, 
at an unseasonable time, and at the risk of capital condemnation V 

t " If you seek to make one rich, study not to increase his stores, but to 
diminish his desires." 

I " If jou regulate your desires according to the standard of nature, you 
will never be poor ; if according to the standard of opinion, you will never be 
rich." 



22<! LECTURE XVII. 

repined. In want, what distress ! in affluence, whaf satiety ! 
The great are under as much difficulty to expend with pleasure, 
as the mean to labour with success. The ignorant, through 
ill-grounded hope, are disappointed ; the knowing, through 
knowledge, despond. Ignorance occasions mistake; mistake, 
disappointment; and disappointment is misery. Knowledge, 
on the other hand, gives true judgment ; and true judgment of 
human things, gives a demonstration of their insufficiency to our 
peace." There is too much glitter in such a style as this to 
please long. We are fatigued, by attending to such quaint and 
artificial sentences often repeated. 

There is another sort of antithesis, the beauty of which con- 
sists in surprising us by the unexpected contrast of things which 
it brings together. Much wit may be shown in this ; but it 
belongs wholly to pieces of professed wit and humour, and can- 
find no place in grave compositions. Mr. Pope, who is re- 
markably fond of antithesis, is often happy in this use of the 
figure. So, in his Rape of the Lock : 

Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, 

Or some, frail china jar receive a flaw ; 

Or stain her honour, or her new brocade ; 

Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 

Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball, 

Or whether heaven has doom'd that Shock must fall. 

What is called the point of an epigram, consists, for the most part, 
in some antithesis of this kind ; surprising us with the smart 
and unexpected turn which it gives to the thought ; and in the 
fewer words it is brought out, it is always the happier. 

Comparisons and antithesis are figures of a cool nature: 
the productions of imagination, not of passion. Interrogations 
and Exclamations, of which I am next to speak, are passionate 
figures. They are, indeed, on so many occasions, the native 
language of passion, that their use is extremely frequent; 
and, in ordinary conversation, when men are heated, they 
prevail as much as in the most sublime oratory. The unfigured, 
literal use of interrogation, is, to ask a question ; but when men 
are prompted by passion, whatever they would affirm, or deny, 
with great vehemence, they naturally put in the form of a 
question; expressing thereby the strongest confidence of the 
truth of their own sentiment, and appealing to their hearers 
for the impossibility of the contrary. Thus, in Scripture : 
" God is not a man that he should lie, neither the son of 
man that he should repent. Hath he said it? and shall he 



INTERROGATION AND EXCLAMATION. 223 

not do it ? Hath he spoken it ? and shall lie not make it 
good ?"* So Demosthenes, addressing himself to the Athe- 
nians : " Tell me, will you still go about and ask one another, 
what news ? What can be more astonishing news than this, 
that the man of Macedon makes war upon the Athenians, and 
disposes of the affairs of Greece ? — Is Philip dead? No, but he 
is sick. What signifies it to you whether he be dead or alive ? 
For, if any thing happens to this Philip, you will immediately 
raise up another." All this, delivered without interrogation, 
had been faint and ineffectual ; but the warmth and eagerness 
which this questioning method expresses, awakens the hearers, 
and strikes them with much greater force. 

Interrogations may often be employed with propriety, in the 
course of no higher emotions than naturally arise in pursuing 
some close and earnest reasoning. But exclamations belong 
only to stronger emotions of the mind ; to surprise, admiration, 
anger, joy, grief, and the like : 

Heu pietas ! heu prisca fides ! invictaque bello 
D extra ! 

Both interrogation and exclamation, and, indeed, all passionate 
figures of speech, operate upon us by means of sympathy. Sym- 
pathy is a very powerful and extensive principle in our nature, 
disposing us to enter into every feeling and passion, which we 
behold expressed by others. Hence, a single person coming 
into company with strong marks, either of melancholy or joy, 
upon his countenance, will diffuse that passion in a moment 
through the whole circle. Hence, in a great crowd, passions 
are so easily caught, and so fast spread, by that powerful con- 
tagion which the animated looks, cries, and gestures of a multi- 
tude never fail to carry. Now, interrogations and exclamations, 
being natural signs of a moved and agitated mind, always, when 
they are properly used, dispose us to sympathize with the dispo- 
positions of those who use them, and to feel as they feel. 

From this it follows, that the great rule with regard to the 
conduct of such figures is, that the writer attend to the manner 
in which nature dictates to us to express any emotion or passion, 
and that he give his language that turn, and no other ; above 
all, that he never affect the style of a passion which he does not 
feel. With interrogations he may use a good deal of freedom ; 
these, as above observed, falling in so much with the ordinary 
course of language and reasoning, even when no great vehemence 

* Numbers, chap, xxiii. ver. 19. 



224 LECTURE XVII. 

ia supposed to have place in the mind. But, with respect to ex- 
clamations, he must be more reserved. Nothing has a worse 
effect than the frequent and unseasonable use of them. Raw, 
juvenile writers imagine, that by pouring them forth often, they 
render their compositions warm and animated. Whereas quite 
the contrary follows. They render it frigid to excess. When 
an author is always calling upon us to enter into transports 
which he has said nothing to inspire, we are both disgusted and 
enraged at him. He raises no sympathy, for he gives us no pas- 
sion of his own, in which we can take part. He gives us words 
and not passion ; and, of course, can raise no passion, unless 
that of indignation. Hence I am inclined to think, he was not 
much mistaken, who said, that when, on looking into a book, 
he found the pages thick bespangled with the point which is 
called " punctum admirationis," he judged this to be a sufficient 
reason for his laying it aside. And, indeed, were it not for the 
help of this " punctum admirationis," with which many writers 
of the rapturous kind so much abound, one would be often at a 
loss to discover, whether or not it was exclamation which they 
aimed at. For, it has now become a fashion, among these wri- 
ters, to subjoin points of admiration to sentences, which contain 
nothing but simple affirmations, or propositions ; as if, by an 
affected method of pointing, they could transform them in the 
reader's mind into high figures of eloquence. Much akin to this, 
is another contrivance practised by some writers, of separating 
almost all the members of their sentences from each other, by 
blank lines ; as if, by setting them thus asunder, they bestowed 
some special importance upon them ; and required us, in going 
along, to make a pause at every other word, and weigh it well. 
This, I think, may be called a typographical figure of speech. 
Neither, indeed, since we have been led to mention the arts of 
writers for increasing the importance of their words, does ano- 
ther custom, which prevailed very much some time ago, seem 
worthy of imitation ; I mean that of distinguishing the significant 
words, in every sentence, by italic characters. On some occa- 
sions, it is very proper to use such distinctions. But when we 
carry them so far, as to mark with them every supposed empha- 
tical word, these words are apt to multiply so fast in the author's 
imagination, that every page is crowded with italics ; which can 
produce no effect whatever, but to hurt the eye and create con- 
fusion. Indeed, if the sense point not out the most emphatical 
expressions, & variation in the type, especially when occuring so 
frequently, will give small aid. And, accordingly, the most 



VISION. 225 

masterly writers, of late, have, with good reason, laid aside all 
those feeble props of significancy, and trusted wholly to \M 
weight of their sentiments for commanding attention. But to 
return from this digression : 

Another figure of speech, proper only to animated and warm 
composition, is what some critical writers call Vision ; when, in 
place of relating something that is past, we use the present 
tense, and describe it as actually passing before our eyes. Thus 
Cicero, in his fourth oration against Catiline : u Videor enim 
mihi hanc urbem videre, lucem orbis terrarum atque arcem om- 
nium gentium, subito uno incendio concidentem ; cerno anirno 
sepulta in patria miseros atque insepultos acervos civium ; ver- 
satur mihi ante oculos adspectus Cethegi, et furor, in vestra caede 
bacchantis."* This manner of description supposes a sort of 
enthusiasm, which carries the person who describes in some 
measure out of himself; and, when well executed, must needs 
impress the reader or hearer strongly, by the force of that sym- 
pathy which I have before explained. But, in order to a suc- 
cessful execution, it requires an uncommonly warm imagination, 
and such a happy selection of circumstances, as shall make us 
think we see before our eyes the scene that is described. Other- 
wise, it shares the same fate with all feeble attempts towards pas- 
sionate figures ; that of throwing ridicule upon the author and 
leaving the reader more cool and uninterested than he was before. 
The same observations are to be applied to repetition, suspension, 
correction, and many more of those figurative forms of speech, 
which rhetoricians have enumerated among the beauties of elo- 
quence. They are beautiful, or not, exactly in proportion as 
they are native expressions of the sentiment or passion intended 
to be heightened by them. Let nature and passion always speak 
their own language, and they will suggest figures in abundance. 
But, when we seek to counterfeit a warmth which we do not 
feel, no figures will either supply the defect, or conceal the im- 
posture. 

There is one figure (and J shall mention no more) of frequent 
use among all public speakers, particularly at the bar, which 
Quintilian insists upon considerably, and calls Amplification. It 
consists in an artful exaggeration of all the circumstances of 
some object or action which we want to place in a strong light, 

* " 1 seem to myself to behold this city, the ornament of the earth, and tn« 
capital of all nations, suddenly involved in one conflagration. I see before me 
the slaughtered heaps of citizens lying unburied in the midst of their mined 
country. The furious countenance of Cethegus rises to my view, while with a 
savage joy he is triumphing in your miseries." c. 6. 

Q 



220 LECTURE XVII. 

either a good or a bad one. It is not so properly one figure, as 
the skilful management of several which we make to tend to one 
point. It may be carried on by a proper use of magnifying or 
extenuating terms, by a regular enumeration of particulars, or by 
throwing together, as into one mass, a crowd of circumstances ; 
by suggesting comparisons also with things of a like nature. 
But the principal instrument by which it works, is by a climax, 
or a gradual rise of one circumstance above another, till our idea 
be raised to the utmost. I spoke formerly of a climax in sound ; 
a climax in sense, when well carried on, is a figure which never 
fails to amplify strongly. The common example of this is, that 
noted passage in Cicero, which every school-boy knows : 
u Facinus est vincire civem Romanum ; scelus verberare, prope 
parricidium, necare ; quid dicam in crucenl tollere ?"* I shall 
give an instance from a printed pleading of a famous Scotch 
lawyer, Sir George M'Kenzie. It is in a charge to the jury, in 
the case of a woman accused of murdering her own child. 
a Gentlemen, if one man had any how slain another, if an adver- 
sary had killed his opposer, or a woman occasioned the death of 
her enemy, even these criminals would have been capitally pun- 
ished by the Cornelian law : but, if this guiltless infant, who 
could make no enemy, had been murdered by its own nurse, 
what punishments would not then the mother have demanded ? 
With what cries and exclamations would she have stunned your 
ears ? What shall we say then, when a woman, guilty of ho- 
micide, a mother of the murder of her innocent child, hath com- 
prised all those misdeeds in one single crime ; a crime, in its own 
nature detestable ; in a woman, prodigious ; in a mother, incre- 
dible ; and perpetrated against one whose age called for com- 
passion, whose near relation claimed affection, and whose inno- 
cence deserved the highest favour ?" I must take notice, how- 
ever, that such regular climaxes as these, though they have con- 
siderable beauty, have, at the same time, no small appearance of 
art and study ; and, therefore, though they may be admitted into 
formal harangues, yet they speak not the language of great ear- 
nestness and passion, which seldom proceed by steps so regular. 
Nor, indeed, for the purposes of effectual persuasion, are they 
likely to be so successful, as an arrangement of circumstances in 
a less artificial order. For, when much art appears, we are al- 
ways put on our guard against the deceits of eloquence ; but 

* " It is a crime to put a Roman citizen in bonds ; it is the height of guilt to 
scourge him ; little less than parricide to put him to death ; what name then 
shall I give to crucifying him?" 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 227 

when a speaker lias reasoned strongly, and by force of argument 
has made good his main point, he may then, taking advantage of 
tiie favourable bent of our minds, make use of such artificial fi- 
gures to confirm our belief and to warm our minds. 



LECTURE XVIII. 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE— GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE- 
DIFFUSE, CONCISE— FEEBLE, NERVOUS— DRY, PLAIN, NEAT, 
ELEGANT, FLOWERY. 

Having treated, at considerable length, of the figures of 
speech, of their origin, of their nature, and of the management 
of such of them as are important enough to require a particular 
discussion, before finally dismissing this subject, I think it in- 
cumbent on me, to make some observations concerning the 
proper use of figurative language in general. These, indeed, I 
have in part already anticipated. But, as great errors are often 
committed in this part of style, especially by young writers, it 
may be of use that I bring together, under one view, the most 
material directions on this head. 

I begin with repeating an observation formerly made, that 
neither all the beauties, nor even the chief beauties, of com- 
position depend upon tropes and figures. Some of the most 
sublime and most pathetic passages of the most admired au- 
thors, both in prose and poetry, are expressed in the most sim- 
ple style, without any figure at all ; instances of which I have 
before given. On the other hand, a composition may abound 
with these studied ornaments ; the language may be artful, 
splendid, and highly figured, and yet the composition be on the 
whole frigid and unaffecting. Not to speak of sentiment and 
thought, which constitute the real and lasting merit of any work, 
if the style be stiff and affected, if it be deficient in perspicuity 
or precision, or in ease and neatness, all the figures that can be 
employed will never render it agreeable : they may dazzle a 
vulgar, but will never please a judicious eye. 

In the second place, figures, in order to be beautiful, must 
always rise naturally from the subject. I have shown that all 
of them are the language either of imagination, or of passion ; 
some of them suggested by imagination, when it is awakened 
and sprightly, such as metaphors and comparisons ; others by 
passion or more heated emotion, such as personifications and 

Q2 



223 LECTURE XVI II. 

apostrophes. Of course they are beautiful then only, when they 
are prompted by fancy or by passion. They must rise of their 
own accord ; they must flow from a mind warmed by the object 
which it seeks to describe ; we should never interrupt the course 
of thought to cast about for figures. If they be sought after 
coolly, and fastened on as designed ornaments, they will have a 
miserable effect. It is a very erroneous idea, which many have 
of the ornaments of style, as if they were things detached from 
the subject, and that could be stuck to it, like lace upon a coat • 
this is, indeed, 

Purpureas, late qui splcndeat, unus et alter 

Assuitur pannus.* Ars Poet. v. 15. 

And it is this false idea which has often brought attention to the 
beauties of writing into disrepute. Whereas, the real and 
proper ornaments of style arise from sentiment. They flow in 
the same stream with the current of thought. A writer of 
genius conceives his subject strongly ; his imagination is filled 
and impressed with it ; and pours itself forth in that figurative 
language which imagination naturally speaks. He puts on no 
emotion which his subject does not raise in him ; he speaks as 
he feels ; but his style will be beautiful, because his feelings,are 
lively. On occasions, when fancy is languid, or finds nothing 
to rouse it, we should never attempt to hunt for figures. We 
then work, as it is said, " invita Minerva ;* supposing figures 
invented, they will have the appearance of being forced ; and, in 
this case, they had much better be omitted. 

In the third place, even when imagination prompts, and the 
subject naturally gives rise to figures, they must, however, not 
be employed too frequently. In all beauty, " simplex munditiis" 
is a capital quality. Nothing derogates more from the weight 
and dignity of any composition, than too great attention to orna- 
ment. When the ornaments cost, labour, that labour always 
appears ; though they should cost us none, still the reader or 
hearer may be surfeited with them ; and when they come too 
thick, they give the impression of a light and frothy genius, that 
evaporates in show, rather than brings forth what is solid. The 
directions of the ancient critics, on this head, are full of good 
sense, and deserve careful attention. " Voluptatibus maximis," 
says Cicero, de Orat. lib. iii., " fastidium finitimum est in rebus 
omnibus ; quo hoc minus in pratione miremur. In qua, vel ex 

• " Shreds of purple with broad lustre shine, 

Sew'd on your poem."— Francis. 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 229 

poetis, vel oratoribus, possumus judicare, concinnam, ornatam, 
festivam sine intermissione, quamvis claris sit coloribus picta, 
vel poesis, vel oratio, non posse in delectatione esse diuturna. 
Quare, bene et praeclare, quamvis nobis saepe dicatur, belle et 
festive nimium saepe nolo."* To the same purpose are the ex- 
cellent directions with which Quintilian concludes his discourse 
concerning figures, lib. ix. c. 3. " Ego illud de iis figuris, quae 
vere sunt, adjiciam breviter, sicut ornant orationem opportune 
positae, ita ineptissimas esse, cum immodice petuntur. Sunt, qui 
neglecto rerum pondere, et viribus sententiarum, si vel inania 
verba in hos modos depravarint, summos se judicent artifices ; 
ideoque non desinunt eas nectere ; quas sine sententia sectari, 
tam est ridiculum, quam quaerere habitum gestumque sine cor- 
pore. Ne hoe quidem, quae rectae fiunt, densandae sunt nimis. 
Sciendum imprimis, quid quisque postulet locus, quid persona, 
quid tempus. Major enim pars harum figurarum posita est in 
delectatione. Ubi vero atrocitate, invidia, miser atione pugnan- 
dum est ; quis ferat verbis contrapositis, et consimilibus, et 
pariter cadentibus, irascentem, flentem, rogantem ? Cum in his 
rebus cura verborum deroget affectibus fidem ; et, ubicunque ars 
ostentatur, Veritas abesse videatur."-]- After these judicious and 
useful observations, I have no more to add, on this subject, ex- 
cept this admonition : 

In the fourth place, that without a genius for figurative lan- 
guage, none should attempt it. Imagination is a power not to 
be acquired ; it must be derived from nature. Its redundancies 

* " In all human things, disgust borders so nearly on the most lively pleasures, 
that we need not be surprised to find this hold in eloquence. From reading 
either poets or orators we may easily satisfy ourselves, that neither a poem nor 
an oration, which, without intermission, is showy and sparkling, can please us 
long. Wherefore, though we may wish for the frequent praise of having ex- 
pressed ourselves well and properly, we should not covet repeated applause, 
for being bright and splendid." 

t " I must add, concerning those figures which are proper in themselves, that 
as they beautify a composition when they are seasonably introduced, so they de- 
form it greatly if too frequently sought after. There are some, who, neglecting 
strength of sentiment and weight of matter, if they can only force their empty 
words into a figurative style, imagine themselves great writers ; and therefore 
continually string together such ornaments ; which is just as ridiculous, where 
there is no sentiment to support them, as to contrive gestures and dresses for 
what wants a body. Even those figures which a subject admits, must not come 
too thick. We must begin with considering what the occasion, the time, and 
the person who speaks, render proper. For the object aimed at by the greater 
part of these figures is entertainment. But when the subject becomes deeply 
serious, and strong passions are to be moved, who can bear the orator, who, in 
affected language and balanced phrases, endeavours to express wrath, commise- 
ration, or earnest entreaty ? On all such occasions, a solicitous attention to 
words weakens passion ; and when so much art is shown, there is suspected to be 
little sincerity." 



230 LECTURE XVIII. 

we may prune, its deviations we may correct, its sphere we 
may enlarge, but the faculty itself we cannot create ; and all 
efforts towards a metaphorical ornamented style, if we are desti- 
tute of the proper genius for it, will prove awkward and dis- 
gusting. Let us satisfy ourselves, however, by considering, 
that without this talent, or at least with a very small measure 
of it, we may both write and speak to advantage. Good sense, 
clear ideas, perspicuity of language, and proper arrangement of 
words and thoughts, will always command attention. These 
are, indeed, the foundations of all solid merit, both in speaking 
and writing. Many subjects require nothing more ; and those 
which admit of ornament, admit it only as a secondary requisite. 
To study and to know our own genius well ; to follow nature : 
to seek to improve, but not to force it, are dh'ections which 
cannot be too often given to those who desire to excel in the 
liberal arts. 

When I entered on the consideration of style, I observed 
that, words being the copies of our ideas, there must always be 
a very intimate connexion between the manner in which every 
writer employs words, and his manner of thinking ; and that, 
from the peculiarity of thought and expression which belongs to 
him, there is a certain character imprinted on his style, which 
may be denominated his manner ; commonly expressed by such 
general terms, as strong, weak, dry, simple, affected, or the like. 
These distinctions carry, in general, some reference to an au- 
thor's manner of thinking, but refer chiefly to his mode of ex- 
pression. They arise from the whole tenor of his language ; 
and comprehend the effect produced by all those parts of style 
which we have already considered ; the choice which he makes 
of single words ; his arrangement of these in sentences ; the de- 
gree of his precision ; and his embellishment, by means of musi- 
cal cadence, figures, or other arts of speech. Of such general 
characters of style, therefore, it remains now to speak, as the 
result of those underparts of which I have hitherto treated. 

That different subjects require to be treated of in different 
sorts of style, is a position so obvious, that I shall not stay to 
illustrate it. Every one sees that treatises of philosophy, for 
instance, ought not to be composed in the same style with 
orations. Every one sees, also, that different parts of the same 
composition require a variation in the style and manner. In a 
sermon, for instance, or any harangue, the application or pero- 
ration admits more ornament, and requires more warmth, than 
the didactic part. But what I mean at present to remark is, 



GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE. 231 

that amidst this variety, we still expect to find, in the composi- 
tions of any one man, some degree of uniformity or consistency 
with himself in manner : we expect to find some predominant 
character of style impressed on all his writings, which shall be 
suited to, and shall mark, his particular genius, and turn of 
mind. The orations in Livy differ much in style, as they ought 
to do, from the rest of his history. The same is the case with 
those in Tacitus. Yet both in Livy's Orations and in those of 
Tacitus, we are able clearly to trace the distinguishing manner 
of each historian ; the magnificent fulness of the one, and the 
sententious conciseness of the other. The " Lettres Persanes," 
arid " L'Esprit des Loix," are the works of the same author. 
They required very different composition surely, and accordingly 
they differ widely ; yet still we see the same hand. Wherever 
there is real and native genius, it gives a determination to one 
kind of style rather than another. Where nothing of this 
appears ; where there is no marked nor peculiar character in 
the compositions of any author, we are apt to infer, not without 
reason, that he is a vulgar and trivial author, who writes from 
imitation, and not from the impulse of original genius. As the 
most celebrated painters are known by their hand, so the best 
and most original writers are known and distinguished, through- 
out all their works, by their style and peculiar manner. This 
will be found to hold almost without exception. 

The ancient critics attended to these general characters of 
style which we are now to consider. Dionysius of Halicarnassus 
divides them into three kinds, and calls them the austere, the 
florid, and the middle. By the austere, he means a style dis- 
tinguished for strength and firmness, with a neglect of smooth- 
ness and ornament ; for examples of which, he gives Pindar and 
iEschylus among the poets, and Thucydides among the prose 
writers. By the florid, he means, as the name indicates, a style 
ornamented, flowing, and sweet; resting more upon numbers 
and grace, than strength ; he instances Hesiod, Sappho, Ana- 
creon, Euripides, and principally Isocrates. The middle kind 
is the just mean between these, and comprehends the beauties 
of both : in which class he places Homer and Sophocles among 
the poets ; in prose, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Plato, and (what 
seems strange) Aristotle. This must be a very wide class in- 
deed, which comprehends Plato and Aristotle under one article 
as to style.* Cicero and Quintilian make also a threefold 
division of style, though with respect to different qualities of it ; 

* De Compositione Verborum, cap. 25. 



232 LECTURE XVII r. 

in which they are followed by most of the modern writers on 
rhetoric ; the simplex, tenue, or subtile ; ■ the grave or vehemens ; 
and the medium or temperatum genus dicendi. But these divisions, 
and the illustrations they give of them, are so loose and genera^ 
that they cannot advance us much in our ideas of style I shall 
endeavour to be a little more particular in what I have to say on 
this subject. 

One of the first and most obvious distinctions of the different 
kinds of style, is what arises from an author's spreading out his 
thoughts more or less. This distinction forms, what are called, 
the Diffuse and the Concise Styles. A concise writer compresses 
his thoughts into the fewest possible words ; he seeks to employ 
none but such as are most expressive ; he lops off, as redundant, 
every expression which does not add something material to the 
sense. Ornament he does not reject ; he may be lively and 
figured; but his ornament is intended for the sake of force, rather 
than grace. He never gives you the same thought twice. He 
places it in the light which appears to him the most striking ; 
but if you do not apprehend it well in that light, you need not 
expect to find it in any other. His sentences are arranged with 
compactness and strength, rather than with cadence and har- 
mony. The utmost precision is studied in them ; and they are 
commonly designed to suggest more to the reader's imagination 
than they directly express. 

A diffuse writer unfolds his thoughts fully. He places it in 
a variety of lights, and gives the reader every possible assistance 
for understanding it completely. He is not very careful to ex- 
press it at first in its full strength ; because he is to repeat the 
impression ; and what he wants in strength, he proposes to 
supply by copiousness. Writers of this character generally 
love magnificence and amplification. Their periods naturally 
run out into some length, and having room for ornament of every 
kind, they admit it freely. 

Each of these manners has its peculiar advantages ; and 
each becomes faulty when carried to the extreme. The extreme 
of conciseness becomes abrupt and obscure ; it is apt also to 
lead into a style too pointed, and bordering on the epigram 
matic. The extreme of diffuseness becomes weak and languid 
and tires the reader. However, to one or other of these two 
manners, a writer may lean according as his genius prompts 
him : and under the general character of a concise, or of a 
more open and diffuse style, may possess much beauty in his 
composition. 






CONCISE AND DIFFUSE STYLE. 233 

For illustrations of these general characters, I can only refer 
to the writers who are examples of them. It is not so much 
from detached passages, such as I was wont formerly to quote 
for instances, as from the current of an author's style, that we 
are to collect the idea of a formed manner of writing. The two 
most remarkable examples that I know, of conciseness carried 
as far as propriety will allow, perhaps in some cases further, are 
Tacitus the historian, and the president Montesquieu in "L'Esprit 
des Loix." Aristotle too holds an eminent rank among didactic 
writers for his brevity. Perhaps no writer in the world was 
ever so frugal of his words as Aristotle ; but this frugality o . 
expression frequently darkens his meaning. Of a beautiful and 
magnificent diffuseness, Cicero is, beyond doubt, the most illus- 
trious instance that can be given. Addison also, and Sir William 
Temple, come in some degree under this class. 

In judging when it is proper to lean to the concise, and when 
to the diffuse manner, we must be directed by the nature of the 
composition. Discourses that are to be spoken, require a more 
copious style than books that are to be read. When the whole 
meaning must be catched from the mouth of the speaker, without 
the advantage which books afford of pausing at pleasure, and 
reviewing what appears obscure, great conciseness is always to 
be avoided. We should never presume too much on the quick- 
ness of our hearer's understanding ; but our style ought to be 
such, that the bulk of men can go along with us easily, and 
without effort. A flowing, copious style, therefore, is required 
in all public speakers ; guarding, at the same time, against such 
a degree of diffusion as renders them languid and tiresome ; 
which will always prove the case, when they inculcate too 
much, and present the same thought under too many different 
views. 

In written compositions, a certain degree of conciseness 
possesses great advantages. It is more lively, keeps up atten- 
tion, makes a brisker and stronger impression, and gratifies the 
mind by supplying more exercise to a reader's own thought. 
A. sentiment, which, expressed diffusely, will barely be admitted 
to be just, expressed concisely, will be admired as spirited. 
Description, when we want to have it vivid and animated, should 
be in a concise strain. This is different from the common 
opinion ; most persons being ready to suppose, that upon de- 
scription a writer may dwell more safely than upon other things, 
and that by a full and extended style, it is rendered more rich 
and expiessive. I apprehend, on the contrary, that a diffuse 



234 LECTURE XVIII. 

manner generally weakens it. Any redundant, words or circum- 
stances encumber the fancy, and make the object we present to 
it, appear confused and indistinct. Accordingly, the most mas- 
terly describers, Homer, Tacitus, Milton, are almost always 
concise in their descriptions. They show us more of an object 
at one glance, than a feeble diffuse writer can show, by turning 
it round and round in a variety of lights. The strength and 
vivacity of description, whether in prose or poetry, depend 
much more upon the happy choice of one or two striking cir- 
cumstances, than upon the multiplication of them. 

Addresses to the passions, likewise, ought to be in the con- 
cise, rather than the diffuse manner. In these, it is dangerous 
to be diffuse, because it is very difficult to support proper warmth 
for any length of time. When we become prolix, we are always 
in hazard of cooling the reader. The heart too, and the fancy, 
run fast ; and if once we can put them in motion, they supply 
many particulars to greater advantage than an author can dis- 
play them. The case is different, when we address ourselves to 
the understanding : as in all matters of reasoning, explication, 
and instruction. There I would prefer a more free and diffuse 
manner. When you are to strike the fancy, or to move the 
heart, be concise ; when you are to inform the understanding, 
which moves more slowly, and requires the assistance of a guide, 
it is better to be full. Historical narration may be beautiful, 
either in a concise or a diffuse manner, according to the writer's 
genius. Livy and Herodotus are diffuse ; Thucydides and 
Sallust are succinct ; yet all of them are agreeable. 

I observed that a diffuse style generally abounds in long pe- 
riods ; and a concise writer, it is certain, will often employ short 
sentences. It is not, however, to be inferred from this, that 
long or short sentences are fully characteristical of the one or 
the other manner. It is very possible for one to compose always 
in short sentences, and to be withal extremely diffuse, if a small 
measure of sentiment be spread through many of these sentences. 
Seneca is a remarkable example. By the shortness and quaint- 
ness of his sentences, he may appear at first view very concise ; 
yet he is far from being so. He transfigures the same thought 
into many different forms. He makes it pass for a new one, 
only by giving it a new turn. So also most of the French wri- 
ters compose in short sentences ; though their style, in general, 
is not concise ; commonly less so than the bulk of English 
writers, whose sentences are much longer. A French author 
breaks down into two or three sentences, that portion of thought 



NERVOUS AND FEEBLE STYLE. 235 

which an English author crowds into one. The direct effect of 
short sentences, is to render the style brisk, and lively, but not 
always concise. By the quick successive impulses which they 
make on the mind, they keep it awake ; and give to composition 
more of a spirited character. Long periods like Lord Claren- 
don's are grave and stately ; but, like all grave things, they are 
in hazard of becoming dull. An intermixture of both long and 
short ones is requisite, when we would support solemnity, to- 
gether with vivacity; leaning more to the one or the other, 
according as propriety requires that the solemn or the sprightly 
should be predominant in our composition. But of long and 
short sentences, I had occasion, formerly, to treat under the 
head of the Construction of Periods. 

The Nervous and the Feeble are generally held to be cha- 
racters of style, of the same import with the concise and the 
diffuse. They do indeed very often coincide. Diffuse writers 
have, for the most part, some degree of feebleness ; and nervous 
writers will generally be inclined to a concise expression. This, 
however, does not always hold ; and there are instances of wri- 
ters, who, in the midst of full and ample style, have maintained 
a great degree of strength. Livy is an example ; and in the 
English language, Dr. Barrow. Barrow's style has many faults. 
It is unequal, incorrect, and redundant, but withal, for force and 
expressiveness, uncommonly distinguished. On every subject, 
he multiplies words with an overflowing copiousness ; but it is 
always a torrent of strong ideas and significant expressions 
which he pours forth. Indeed the foundations of a nervous or a 
weak style are laid in an author's manner of thinking. If he 
conceives an object strongly, he will express it with energy : 
but if he has only an indistinct view of his subject ; if his ideas 
be loose and wavering ; if his genius be such, or, at the time of 
his writing, so carelessly exerted, that he has no firm hold of the 
conception which he would communicate to us, the marks of all 
this will clearly appear in his style. Several unmeaning words 
and loose epithets will be found ; his expressions will be vague 
and general ; his arrangement indistinct and feeble ; we shall 
conceive somewhat of his meaning, but our conception will be 
faint. Whereas a nervous writer, whether he employs an ex- 
tended or a concise style, gives us always a strong impression of 
his meaning ; his mind is full of his subject, and his words are 
all expressive ; every phrase and every figure which he uses, 
-^tends to render the picture, which he would set before us, more 
lively and complete. 



23(i LECTURE XV1I1. 

I observed, under the head of Diffuse and Concise Style, 
that an author might lean either to the one or the other, and yet 
be beautiful. This is not the case with respect to the nervous 
and the feeble. Every author, in every composition, ought to 
study to express himself with some strength, and, in proportion 
as he approaches to the feeble, he becomes a bad writer. In all 
kinds of writing, however, the same degree of strength is not 
demanded. But the more grave and weighty any composition 
is, the more should a character of strength predominate in the 
style. Hence in history, philosophy, and solemn discourses, it 
is expected most. One of the most complete models of a ner- 
vous style, is Demosthenes in his Orations. 

As every good quality in style has an extreme, when pursued 
to which it becomes faulty, this holds of the nervous style as 
well as others. Too great a study of strength, to the neglect of 
the other qualities of style, is found to betray writers into a 
harsh manner. Harshness arises from unusual words, from 
forced inversions in the construction of a sentence, and too 
much neglect of smoothness and ease. This is reckoned the 
fault of some of our earliest classics in the English language ; 
such as Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, Hooker, Chil- 
lingworth, Milton in his prose works, Harrington, Cudworth, 
and other writers of considerable note in the days of Queen 
Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. These writers had nerves 
and strength in a high degree, and are to this day eminent for 
that quality in style. But the language in their hands was ex- 
ceedingly different from what it is now, and was indeed entirely 
formed upon the idiom and construction of the Latin in the ar- 
rangement of sentences. Hooker, for instance, begins the Pre- 
face to his celebrated work of Ecclesiastical Polity, with the 
following sentence : K Though for no other cause, yet for this, 
that posterity may know we have not loosely, through silence, 
permitted things to pass away as in a dream, there shall be, for 
men's information, extant this much concerning the present state 
of the church of God established amongst us, and their careful 
endeavours which would have upheld the same." Such a sen- 
tence now sounds harsh in our ears. Yet some advantages cer- 
tainly attended this sort of style ; and whether we have gained, 
or lost, upon the whole, by departing from it, may bear a ques- 
tion. By the freedom of arrangement, which it permitted, it 
rendered the language susceptible of more strength, of more 
variety of collocation, and more harmony of period. But how- 
ever this be, such a style is now obsolete ; and no modern writer 





NERVOUS AND FEEBLE STYLE. 

could adopt it without the censure of harshness and affectation, 
The present form which the language has assumed, has in some 
measure, sacrificed the study of strength to that of perspicuity 
and ease. Our arrangement of words has become less forcible, 
perhaps, but more plain and natural ; and this is now understood 
to be the genius of our language. 

The restoration of King Charles II. seems to be the era of 
the formation of our present style. Lord Clarendon was one of 
the first who laid aside those frequent inversions which prevailed 
among writers of the former age. After him, Sir William 
Temple polished the language still more. But the author, who, 
by the number and reputation of his works, formed it more than 
any one, into its present state, is Dryden. Dryden began to 
write at the Restoration, and continued long an author both in 
poetry and prose. He had made the language his study ; and 
though he wrote hastily, and often incorrectly, and his style is 
not free from faults, yet there is a richness in his diction, a co- 
piousness, ease, and variety in his expression, which has not 
been surpassed by any who have come after him.* Since his 
time, considerable attention has been paid to purity and elegance 
of style : but it is elegance rather than strength, that forms the 
distinguishing quality of mo5t of the good English writers- 
Some of them compose in a more manly and nervous manner 
than others ; but, whether it be from the genius of our language, 
or from whatever other cause, it appears to me, that we are far 
from the strength of several of the Greek and Roman authors. 

Hitherto we have considered style under those characters 
that respect its expressiveness of an author's meaning. Let 
us now proceed to consider it in another view, with respect to 
the degree of ornament employed to beautify it. Here, the 
style of different authors seems to rise, in the following grada- 
tion : a dry, a plain, a neat, an elegant, a flowery manner. Of 
each of these in their order : 

First, a dry manner. This excludes all ornament of every 
kind. Content with being understood, it has not the least aim 
to please, either the fancy or the ear. This is tolerable only in 

• Dr. Johnson, in his Life of Dryden, gives the following character of his 
prose style : " His prefaces have not the formality of a settled style, in which the 
first half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never balanced, 
nor the periods modelled ; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls 
into its proper place. Nothing is cold or languid ; the whole is airy, animated 
and vigorous ; what is little, is gay ; what is great is splendid. Though all is 
easy, nothing is feeble ; though all seems careless, there is nothing harsh ; and 
though, since his earlier works, more than a century has passed, they have no- 
thing yet uncouth or obsolete." 



238 LECTURE XVIII. 

pure didactic writing ; and even there, to make us bear it, great 
weight and solidity of matter is requisite ; and entire perspicuity 
of language. Aristotle is the complete example of a dry style. 
Never, perhaps, was there any author who adhered so rigidly 
to the strictness of a didactic manner throughout all his writings, 
and conveyed so much instruction, without the least approach 
to ornament. With the most profound genius and extensive 
views, he writes like a pure intelligence, who addresses himself 
solely to the understanding, without making any use of the chan- 
nel of the imagination. But this is a manner which deserves 
not to be imitated. For, although the goodness of the matter 
may compensate the dryness or harshness of the style, yet is that 
dryness a considerable defect ; as it fatigues attention, and con- 
veys our sentiments with disadvantage to the reader or hearer. 

A Plain Style rises one degree above a dry one. A writer of 
this character employs very little ornament of any kind, and 
rests almost entirely upon his sense. But, if he is at no pains 
to engage us by the employment of figures, musical arrange- 
ment, or any other art of writing, he studies, however, to avoid 
disgusting us like a dry and a harsh writer. Besides perspicuity, 
he pursues propriety, purity, and precision, in his language ; 
which form one degree, and no inconsiderable one, of beauty. 
Liveliness, too, and force, may be consistent with a very plain 
style : and therefore, such an author, if his sentiments be good, 
may be abundantly agreeable. The difference between a dry 
and plain writer is, that the former is incapable of ornament, 
and seems not to know what it is ; the latter seeks not after it. 
He gives us his meaning, in good language, distinct and pure ; 
any further ornament he gives himself no trouble about ; either, 
because he thinks it unnecessary to his subject ; or, because his 
genius does not lead him to delight in it ; or, because it leads 
him to despise it.* 

This last was the case with Dean Swift, who may be placed 
at the head of those that have employed the plain style. Few 
writers have discovered more capacity. He treats every subject 
which he handles, whether serious or ludicrous, in a masterly 
manner. He knew, almost beyond any man, the purity, the 
extent, the precision of the English language ; and therefore, 

* On this head, of the General Characters of Style, particularly the plain 
and the simple, and the characters of those English authors who are classed un- 
der them, in this and the following lecture, several ideas have been taken 
from a manuscript Treatise on Rhetoric, part of which was shown to me, many 
years ago, by the learned and ingenious author, Dr. Adam Smith ; and which, it 
is hoped, will be given by him to the public. 



NEAT STYLE. 239 

to such as wish to attain a pure and correct style, he is one of 
the most useful models. But we must not look for much orna- 
ment and grace in his language. His haughty and morose 
genius made him despise any embellishment of this kind, as 
beneath his dignity. He delivers his sentiments in a plain, 
downright, positive manner, like one who is sure he is in the 
right ; and is very indifferent whether you be pleased or not. 
His sentences are commonly negligently arranged ; distinctly 
enough as to the sense ; but without any regard to smoothness 
of sound ; often without much regard to compactness or ele- 
gance. If a metaphor, or any other figure, chanced to render 
his satire more poignant, he would, perhaps, vouchsafe to adopt 
it, when it came in his way ; but if it tended only to embellish 
and illustrate, he would rather throw it aside. Hence, in his 
serious pieces, his style often borders upon the dry and un- 
pleasing ; in his humorous ones, the plainness of his manner 
sets off his wit to the highest advantage. There is no froth, 
nor affectation in it ; it seems native and unstudied ; and while 
he hardly appears to smile himself, he makes his reader laugh 
heartily. To a writer of such a genius as Dean Swift, the plain 
style was most admirably fitted. Among our philosophical 
writers, Mr. Locke comes under this class ; perspicuous and 
pure, but almost without any ornament whatever. In works 
which admit, or require, ever so much ornament, there are parts 
where the plain manner ought to predominate. But we must 
remember, that when this is the character which a writer affects 
throughout his whole composition, great weight of matter, and 
great force of sentiment, are required, in order to keep up the 
reader's attention, and prevent him from becoming tired of the 
author. 

What is called a Neat Style comes next in order; and 
here we are got into the region of ornament : but that ornament 
not of the highest or most sparkling kind. A writer of this 
character shows, that he does not despise the beauty of lan- 
guage. It is an object of his attention. But his attention is 
shown in the choice of words, and in a graceful collocation of 
them ; rather than in any high efforts of imagination, or elo- 
quence. His sentences are always clean, and free from the in- 
cumbrance of superfluous words ; of a moderate length ; rather 
inclining to brevity, than a swelling structure ; closing with pro- 
priety ; without any tails or adjections dragging after the proper 
close. His cadence is varied ; but not of the studied musical 
kind. His figures, if he uses any, are short and correct, ratiier 



210 LECTURE XVlil. 

than bold and glowing. Such a style as this, may be pt- 
tained by a writer who has no great powers of fancy or 
genius by industry merely, and careful attention to the rules 
of writing ; and it is a style always agreeable. It imprints a 
character of moderate elevation on our composition, and car- 
ries a decent degree of ornament, which is not unsuitable 
to any subject whatever. A familiar letter, or a law paper, on 
the driest subject may be written with neatness ; and a sermon, 
or a philosophical treatise, in a neat style, will be read with 
pleasure. 

An Elegant Style is a character expressing a higher degree 
of ornament than a neat one ; and, indeed, is the term usually 
applied to style, when possessing all the virtues of ornament, 
without any of its excesses or defects. From what has been 
formerly delivered, it will easily be understood, that completo 
elegance implies great perspicuity and propriety ; purity in the 
choice of words, and care and dexterity in their harmonious 
and happy arrangement. It implies, further, the grace and 
beauty of imagination spread over style, as far as the subject 
admits it ; and all the illustration which figurative language 
adds, when properly employed. In a word, an elegant writer 
is one who pleases the fancy and the ear. while he informs the 
understanding ; and who gives us his ideas clothed with all 
the beauty of expression, but not overcharged with any of 
its misplaced finery. In this class, therefore, we place only the 
first-rate writers in the language ; such as, Addison, Dryden, 
Pope, Temple, Bolingbroke, Atterbury, and a few more : writers 
who differ widely from one another in many of the attributes of 
style, but whom we now class together under the denomination 
of elegant, as, in the scale of ornament, possessing nearly the 
same place. 

When the ornaments, applied to style, are too rich and 
gaudy in proportion to the subject ; when they return upon us 
too fast, and strike us either with a dazzling lustre, or a false 
brilliancy, this forms what is called a Florid Style ; a term com- 
monly used to signify the excess of ornament. In a young com- 
poser this is very pardonable. Perhaps, it is even a promising 
symptom in young people, that their style should incline to the 
florid and luxuriant : " Volo se efferat in adolescente fecunditas,'' 
says Quintilian, " multum inde decoquent anni, multum ratio 
limabit, aliquid velut usu ipso deteretur ; sit modo unde excidi 
possit et quod exsculpi. — Audeat hsec setas plura, et inveniat 
et inventis gaudeat; sint licet ilia non satis interim sicca et 



FLORID STYLE. 341 

severa. Facile remedium est ubertatis : sterilia nullo labore 
vincuntur."* But, although the florid style may be allowed to 
youth, in their first essays, it must not receive the same indul- 
gence from writers of maturer years. It is to be expected, that 
judgment, as it ripens, should chasten imagination, and reject, as 
juvenile, all such ornaments as are redundant, unsuitable to the 
subject, or not conducive to illustrate it. Nothing can be more 
contemptible than that tinsel splendour of language, which some 
writers perpetually affect. It were well, if this could be ascribed 
to the real overflowings of a rich imagination. We should then 
have something to amuse us, at least, if we found little to in- 
struct us. But the worst is, that with those frothy writers, it is 
a luxuriancy of words, not of fancy. We see a laboured attempt 
to rise to a splendour of composition, of which they have formed 
to themselves some loose idea ; but having no strength of genius 
for attaining it, they endeavour to supply the defect by poetical 
words, by cold exclamations, by common-place figures, and 
every thing that has the appearance of pomp and magnificence. 
It has escaped these writers, that sobriety in ornament is one 
great secret for rendering it pleasing ; and that, without a foun- 
dation of good sense and solid thought, the most florid style is 
but a childish imposition on the public. The public, however, 
are but too apt to be so imposed on ; at least, the mob of 
readers, who are very ready to be caught, at first, with whatever 
is dazzling and gaudy. 

I cannot help thinking, that it reflects more honour on the 
religious turn, and good dispositions of the present age, than on 
the public taste, that Mr. Hervey's Meditations have had so 
great a currency. The pious and benevolent heart, which is al- 
ways displayed in them, and the lively fancy, which on some oc- 
casions, appears, justly merits applause : but the perpetual 
glitter of expression, the swoln imagery, and strained descrip- 
tion which abound in them are ornaments of a false kind. I 
would, therefore, advise students of oratory to imitate Mr. Her- 
vey's piety, rather than his style ; and in all compositions of a 
serious kind, to turn their attention, as Mr. Pope says, " from 
sounds to things, from fancy to the heart." Admonitions of this 

* " In youth, I wish to see luxuriancy of fancy appear. Much of it will be 
diminished by years ; much will be corrected by ripening judgment ; some of it, 
by the mere practice of composition, will be worn away. Let there be only suf- 
ficient matter, at first, that can bear some pruning and lopping off. At this time 
of life, let genius be bold and inventive, and pride itself in its efforts, though these 
should not, as yet, be correct. Luxuriancy can easily be cured : but for barren- 
ness there is no remedy."— II. 4, 8, 

n 



242 LECTURE XIX. 

kind I have already had occasion to give, and may hereafter 
repeat them ; as I conceive nothing more incumbent on me in 
this course of Lectures, than to take every opportunity of cau- 
tioning my readers against the affected and frivolous use of or- 
nament; and, instead of that slight and superficial taste in 
writing, which I apprehend to be at present too fashionable, to 
introduce, as far as my endeavours can avail, a taste for more 
solid thought, and more manly simplicity in style. 



LECTURE XIX. 



GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE— SIMPLE, AFFECTED, VEHE 
MENT— DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING A PROPER STYLE. 

Having entered, in the last lecture, on the considera- 
tion of the general characters of style, I treated of the concise 
and diffuse, the nervous and feeble manner. I considered style 
also, with relation to the different degrees of ornament employed 
to beautify it ; in which view, the manner of different authors 
rises according to the following gradation : dry, plain, neat, 
elegant, flowery. 

I am next to treat of style under another character, one of 
great importance in writing, and which requires to be accurately 
examined ; that of simplicity, or a natural style, as distinguished 
from affectation. Simplicity, applied to writing, is a term very 
frequently used ; but like other critical terms, often used loosely, 
and without precision. This has been owing chiefly to the dif- 
ferent meanings given to the word simplicity, which, therefore, 
it will be necessary here to distinguish ; and to show in what 
sense it is a proper attribute of style. We may remark four 
different acceptations in which it is taken. 

The first is, simplicity of composition, as opposed to too 
great a variety of parts. Horace's precept refers to this : 

DeniqOe sit quidvis simplex duntaxat et unum.*— A. P. v. 22. 

This is the simplicity of plan in a tragedy, as distinguished 
from double plots, and crowded incidents : the simplicity of the 
Iliad, or iEneid, in opposition to the digressions of Lucan, and 
the scattered tales of Ariosto ; the simplicity of Grecian architec- 
ture, in opposition to the irregular variety of the Gothic. In 
this sense, simplicity is the same with unity. 

* " Then learn the wand'ring humour to control, 

And keep one eqnal tenor through the whole."— Francis. 



AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 213 

The second sense is, simplicity of thought, as opposed to re- 
finement. Simple thoughts are what arise naturally ; what the 
occasion or the subject suggest unsought ; and what, when once 
suggested, are easily apprehended by all. Refinement in writing 
expresses a less natural and obvious train of thought, and 
which it requires a peculiar turn of genius to pursue ; within 
certain bounds very beautiful ; but when carried too far, ap- 
proaching to intricacy, and hurting us by the appearance of 
being recherche, or far-sought. Thus, we would naturally say, 
that Mr. Parneli is a poet of far greater simplicity in his turn of 
thought, than Mr. Cowley ; Cicero's thoughts on moral subjects 
are natural ; Seneca's, too refined and laboured. In these two 
senses of simplicity, when it is opposed either to variety of part3 
or to refinement of thought, it has no proper relation to style. 

There is a third sense of simplicity, in which it has respect 
to style ; and stands opposed to too much ornament, or pomp of 
language ; as when we say Mr. Locke is a simple, Mr. Hervey 
a florid writer ; and it is in this sense, that the u simplex," the 
" tenue," or " subtile genus diceudi," is understood by Cicero and 
Quintilian. The simple style, in this sense, coincides with the 
plain or the neat style, which I before mentioned ; and, therefore, 
requires no further illustration. 

But there is a fourth sense of simplicity, also respecting 
style ; but not respecting the degree of ornament employed, so 
much as the easy and natural manner in which our language 
expresses our thoughts. This is quite different from the former 
sense of the word just now mentioned, in which simplicity was 
equivalent to plainness : whereas, in this sense, it is compatible 
with the highest ornament. Homer, for instance, possesses this 
simplicity in the greatest perfection ; and yet no writer has more 
ornament and beauty. This simplicity, which is what we are 
now to consider, stands opposed, not to ornament, but to affec- 
tation of ornament, or appearance of labour about our style ; and 
it is a distinguishing excellency in writing. 

A writer of simplicity expresses himself in such a manner, 
that every one thinks he could have written in the same way : 
Horace describes it, 

ut sibi quivis 



Speret idem, sudet nuiltum, frustraque laboret 
Ausus idem.* 

From well known tales such fictions would I raise, 
As all might hope to imitate with ease ; 
Yet, while they strive the same success to gain, 
Should find their labours and their hopes in vain."— Francis. 
R 2 



244 LECTURE XIX. 

There are no marks of art in his expression ; it seems the very 
language of nature ; you see in the style, not the writer and his 
labour, but the man in his own natural character. He may be 
rich in his expression ; he may be full of figures and of fancy ; 
but these flow from him without effort ; and he appears to write 
in this manner, not because he has studied it, but because it is the 
manner of expression most natural to him. A certain degree of 
negligence, also, is not inconsistent with this character of style, 
and even not ungraceful in it ; for too minute an attention to 
words is foreign to it : " Habeat ille," says Cicero, (Orat. No. 
77.) " s molle quiddam, et quod indicet non ingratam negligentiam 
hominis, de re magis quam de verbo laborantis."* This is the 
great advantage of simplicity of style, that, like simplicity of 
manners, it shows us a man's sentiments and turn of mind, laid 
Dpen without disguise. More studied and artificial manners of 
writing, however beautiful, have always this disadvantage, that 
ihey exhibit an author in form, like a man at court, where the 
splendour of dress, and the ceremonial of behaviour; conceal those 
peculiarities which distinguish one man from another. But read- 
ing an author of simplicity, is like conversing with a person of 
distinction at home, and with ease, where we find natural man- 
ners, and a marked character. 

The highest degree of this simplicity is expressed by a 
French term, to which we have none that fully answers in our 
language, naivete. It is not easy to give a precise idea of the 
import of this word. It always expresses a discovery of charac- 
ter. I believe the best account of it is given by a French critic, 
M. Marmontel, who explains it thus : that sort of amiable inge- 
nuity, or undisguised openness, which seems to give us some 
degree of superiority over the person who shows it ; a certain 
infantine simplicity, which we love in our hearts, but which dis- 
plays some features of the character that we think we could 
have art enough to hide ; and which, therefore, always leads us 
to smile at the person who discovers this character. La Fon- 
taine, in his Fables, is given as the great example of such 
naivete. This, however, is to be understood as descriptive of a 
particular species only of simplicity. 

With respect to simplicity, in general, we may remark, that 
the ancient original writers are always the most eminent for it. 
This happens from a plain reason, that they wrote from the 

* "Let this style have a certain softness and ease, which shall characterize a 
negligence, not unpleasing in an author, who appears to be more solicitous about 
the thought than the expression " 



ATTECTATION IN STYLE. 345 

dictates of natural genius, and were not formed upon the labours 
and writings of others, which is always in hazard of producing 
affectation. Hence, among the Greek writers, we have more 
models of a beautiful simplicity than among the Roman. Homer, 
Hesiod, Anacreon, Theocritus, Herodotus, and Xenophon, are 
all distinguished for it. Among the Romans also, we have 
some writers of this character, particularly Terence, Lucretius, 
Phaedrus, and Julius Caesar. The following passage of Ter- 
ence's Andria, is a beautiful instance of simplicity of manner in 
description : 

Funns interim 
Procedit: sequimur: ad sepulchrum venimus: 
In ignem imposita est : fletur. Interea baec soror, 
Quam dixi, ad flammani accessit hnprudentius 
Satis cum periculo. Ibi turn exanimatus Pamphilus, 
Bene dissimulatnm amorem et celatum indicat : 
Accurrit : mediara mulierem complectitur, 
Mea Glycerium, inqnit, quid agis? Cur te is perditum? 
Turn ilia, ut consuetum facile amorem cerneres, 
Rejecit se in eum, flens quam familiariter.* — Act i. sc. 1. 

All the words here are remarkably happy and elegant, and con- 
vey a most lively picture of the scene described ; while, at the 
same time, the style appears wholly artless and unlaboured. 
Let us next consider some English writers, who come under 
this class. 

Simplicity is the great beauty of Archbishop Tillotson's 
manner. Tillotson has long been admired as an eloquent 
writer, and a model for preaching. But his eloquence, if we 
can call it such, has been often misunderstood. For, if we 
include, in the idea of eloquence, vehemence and strength, pic- 
turesque description, glowing figures, or correct arrangement of 
sentences, in all these parts of oratory the archbishop is exceed- 
ingly deficient. His style is always pure, indeed, and perspi- 
cuous, but careless and remiss, too often feeble and languid: 

* "Meanwhile the funeral proceeds ; we. follow ; 
Come to the sepulchre : the body's placed 
Upon the pile ; lamented ; whereupon 
This sister I was speaking of, all wild, 
Ran to the flames, with peril of her life. 
There ! there ! the frighted Pamphilus betrays 
His well-desembled and long hidden love ; 
Runs up, and takes her round the waist, and cries, 
Oh ! my Glycerium ; what is it you do ? 
Why, why endeavour to destroy yourself? 
Then she, in such a manner, that you thence 
Might easily perceive their long, long love. 
Threw herself back into his arms, and wept, 
Oh ! how familiarly !"— Colman. 



S4G LECTURE XIX 

little beauty in the construction of his sentences, winch are 
frequently suffered to drag unharmoniously ; seldom any at- 
tempt towards strength or sublimity. But, notwithstanding 
these defects, such a constant vein of good sense and piety 
runs through his works, such an earnest and serious manner, 
and so much usefid instruction, conveyed in a style so pure, 
natural, and unaffected, as will justly recommend him to high 
regard, as long as the English language remains ; not indeed, 
as a model of the highest eloquence, but as a simple and 
amiable writer, whose manner is strongly expressive of great 
goodness and worth. I observed before, that simplicity of 
manner may be consistent with some degree of negligence in 
style ; and it is only the beauty of that simplicity which makes 
the negligence of such writers seem graceful. But, as appears 
in the archbishop, negligence may sometimes be carried so far 
as to impair the beauty of simplicity, and make it border on a 
flat and languid manner. 

Sir William Temple is another remarkable writer in the 
style of simplicity. In point of ornament and correctness, he 
rises a degree above Tillotson ; though, for correctness, he is 
not in the highest rank. All is easy and flowing in him ; he is 
exceedingly harmonious ; smoothness, and what may be called 
amenity, are the distinguishing characters of his manner : re- 
laxing sometimes, as such a manner will naturally do, into a 
prolix and remiss style. No writer whatever has stamped upon 
his style a more lively impression of his own character. In 
reading his works, we seem engaged in conversation with him ; 
we become thoroughly acquainted with him, not merely as an 
author, but as a man, and contract a friendship for him. He 
may be classed as standing in the middle, between a negligent 
simplicity, and the highest degree of ornament which this cha- 
racter of style admits. 

Of the latter of these, the highest, most correct, and orna- 
mented degree of the simple manner, Mr. Addison is, beyond 
doubt, in the English language, the most perfect example : and, 
therefore, though not without some faults, he is, on the whole, 
the safest model for imitation, and the freest from considerable 
defects, which the language affords. Perspicuous and pure he is 
in the highest degree ; his precision, indeed, not very great ; yet 
nearly as great as the subjects which he treats of require : the 
/N construction of his sentences easy, agreeable, and commonly 
very musical ; carrying a character of smoothness, more than of 
strength. In figurative language, he is rich; particularly in 



SIMPLE AND AFFECTED STYLE. 247 

similes and metaphors ; which are so employed as to render his 
style splendid without being gaudy. There is not the least 
affectation in his manner ; we see no marks of labour ; nothing 
forced or constrained; but great elegance, joined with great 
ease and simplicity. He is, in particular, distinguished by a 
character of modesty, and of politeness, which appears in all his 
writings. No author has a more popular and insinuating man- 
ner ; and the great regard which he every where shows for 
virtue and religion, recommends him highly. If he fails in any 
thing, it is in want of strength and precision, which renders his 
manner, though perfectly suited to such essays as he writes in 
the Spectator, not altogether a proper model for any of the 
higher and more elaborate kinds of composition. Though the 
public have ever done much justice to his merit, yet the nature 
of his merit has not always been seen in its true light ; for, 
though his poetry be elegant, he certainly bears a higher rank 
among the prose writers, than he is entitled to among the poets ; 
and, in prose, his humour is of a much higher, and more 
original strain, than his philosophy. The character of Sir 
Roger de Coverly discovers more genius than the critique on 
Milton. 

Such authors as those, whose characters I have been giving, 
one is never tired of reading. There is nothing in their manner 
that strains or fatigues our thoughts ; we are pleased, without 
being dazzled by their lustre. So powerful is the charm of 
simplicity in an author of real genius, that it atones for many 
defects, and reconciles us to many a careless expression. Hence 
in all the most excellent authors, both in prose and verse, the 
simple and natural manner may be always remarked ; although 
other beauties being predominant, this forms not their peculiar 
and distinguishing character. Thus, Milton is simple in the 
midst of all his grandeur ; and Demosthenes in the midst of all 
his vehemence. To grave and solemn writings, simplicity of 
manner adds the more venerable air. Accordingly, this has 
often been remarked as the prevailing character throughout all 
the sacred Scriptures ; and indeed no other character of style 
was so much suited to the dignity of inspiration. 

Of authors, who, notwithstanding many excellencies, have 
rendered their style much less beautiful by want of simplicity, I 
cannot give a more remarkable example than Lord Shaftesbury. 
This is an author on whom I have made observations several 
times before, and shall now take leave of him, with giving his 
general character under this head. Considerable meri^ doubt- 



243 LECTURE XIX. 

less, he has. His works might be read with profit for the mora] 
philosophy which they contain, had he not filled them with so 
many oblique and invidious insinuations against the Christian 
religion, thrown out, too, with so much spleen and satire, as do 
no honour to his memory, either as an author or a man. His 
language has many beauties. It is firm, and supported in an 
uncommon degree ; it is rich and musical. No English author, 
as I formerly showed, has attended so much to the regular con- 
struction of his sentences, both with respect to propriety, and 
with respect to cadence. All this gives so much elegance and 
pomp to his language, that there is no wonder it should have 
been highly admired by some. It is greatly hurt, however, by 
perpetual stiffness and affectation. This is its capital fault. His 
Lordship can express nothing with simplicity. He seems to have 
considered it is as vulgar, and beneath the dignity of a man of 
quality, to speak like other men. Hence he is ever in buskins ; 
and dressed out with magnificent elegance. In every sentence 
we see the marks of labour and art ; nothing of that ease, which 
expresses a sentiment coming natural and warm from the heart. 
Of figures and ornament of every kind, he is exceedingly fond; 
sometimes happy in them; but his fondness for them is too 
visible ; and, having once laid hold of some metaphor or allusion 
that pleased him, he knows not how to part with it. What is 
most wonderful, he was a professed admirer of simplicity ; is 
always extolling it in the ancients, and censuring the moderns 
for the want of it ; though he departs from it himself as far as 
any one modern whatever. Lord Shaftesbury possessed delicacy 
and refinement of taste, to a degree that we may call excessive 
and sickly ; but he had little warmth of passion ; few strong or 
vigorous feelings : and the coldness of his character led him to 
that artificial and stately manner which appears in his writings 
He was fonder of nothing than of wit and raillery ; but he is far 
from being happy in it. He attempts it often, but always 
awkwardly; he is stiff even in his pleasantry; and laughs in 
form, like an author, and not like a man.* 

From the account which I have given of Lord Shaftesbury's 
manner, it may easily be imagined, that he would mislead many 

It may perhaps be not unworthy of being mentioned, that the first edition 
of his Inquiry into Virtue was published, surreptitiously I believe, in a separate 
form, in the year 1C99 ; and is sometimes to be met with ; by comparing which 
with the corrected edition of the same treatise, as it now stands among his 
works, we see one of the most curious and useful examples that I know, of what 
is called Lima labor ; the art of polishing language, breaking long sentences, and 
working up 3D impeifect draught into a highiy-nnished performance. 






SIMPLE AND AFFECTED STYLE. 249 

v/ho blindly admired him. Nothing is more dangerous to the 
tribe of imitators, than an author, who, with many imposing 
beauties, has also some very considerable blemishes. This is 
fully exemplified in Mr. Blackwall of Aberdeen, the author of 
the Life of Homer, the Letters on Mythology, and the Court of 
Augustus : a writer of considerable learning, and of ingenuity 
also ; but infected with an extravagant love of an artificial style, 
and of that parade of language which distinguishes the Sbafts- 
burean manner. 

Having now said so much to recommend simplicity, or the 
easy and natural manner of writing, and having pointed out the 
defects of an opposite manner ; in order to prevent mistakes on 
this subject, it is necessary for me to observe, that it is very 
possible for an author to write simply, and yet not beautifully. 
One may be free from affectation, and not have merit. The beau- 
tiful simplicity supposes an author to possess real genius ; to 
write with solidity, purity, and liveliness of imagination. In 
this case, the simplicity or unaffectedness of his manner is the 
crowning ornament ; it heightens every other beauty ; it is the 
dress of nature, without which all beauties are imperfect. But 
if mere unaffectedness were sufficient to constitute the beauty of 
style, weak, trifling, and dull writers might often lay claim to 
this beauty. And, accordingly, we frequently meet with pretend- 
ed critics, who extol the dullest writers on account of what they 
call the " chaste simplicity of their manner :" which, in truth* 
is no other than the absence of every ornament, through the 
mere want of genius and imagination. We must distinguish, 
therefore, between that simplicity which accompanies true genius, 
and which is perfectly compatible with every proper ornament 
of style, and that which is no other than a careless and slovenly 
manner. Indeed, the distinction is easily made from the effect 
produced. The one never fails to interest the reader ; the other 
is insipid and tiresome. 

I proceed to mention one other manner or character of style, 
different from any that I have yet spoken of ; which may be dis- 
tinguished by the name of the Vehement. This always implies 
strength ; and is not, by any means, inconsistent with simplici- 
ty ; but, in its predominant character, is distinguishable from 
either the strong or the simple manner. It has a peculiar ar- 
dour ; it is a glowing style ; the language of a man, whose ima- 
gination and passions are heated, and strongly affected by what 
he writes ; who is therefore negligent of lesser graces, but 
pours himself forth with the rapidity and fulness of a torrent. 



250 LECTURE XIX. 

It belongs to the higher kinds of oratory ; and, indeed, is rather 
expected from a man who is speaking, than from one who is 
writing in his closet. The Orations of Demosthenes furnish 
the full and perfect example of this species of style. 

Among English writers, the one who has most of this chai- 
acter, though mixed, indeed, with several defects, is Lord Boling- 
broke. Bolingbroke was formed by nature to be a factious 
leader ; the demagogue of a popular assembly. Accordingly 
the style that runs through all his political writings, is that ot 
one declaiming with heat, rather than writing with deliberation. 
He abounds in rhetorical figures, and pours himself forth with 
great impetuosity. He is copious to a fault ; places the same 
thought before us in many different views ; but generally with life 
and ardour. He is bold, rather than correct ; a torrent that flows 
strong, but often muddy. His sentences are varied as to length 
and shortness ; inclining, however, most to tong periods, some- 
times including parentheses, and frequently crowding and heaping 
a multitude of things upon one another, as naturally happens in the 
warmth of speaking. In the choice of his words, there is great 
felicity and precision. In exact construction of sentences, he is 
much inferior to Lord Shaftesbury ; but greatly superior to him in 
life and ease. Upon the whole, his merit as a writer would have 
been very considerable, if his matter had equalled his style. But 
whilst we find many things to commend in the latter, in the former, 
as I before remarked, we can hardly find any thing to commend. 
In his reasonings, for the most part, he is flimsy and false ; in 
his political writings, factious ; in what he calls his philosophical 
ones, irreligious and sophistical in the highest degree. 

I shall insist no longer on the different manners of writers, 
or the general characters of style. Some other, besides those 
which I have mentioned, might be pointed out ; but I am sensi- 
ble, that it is very difficult to separate such general considera- 
tions of the style of authors from their peculiar turn of senti- 
ment, which it is not my business at present to criticise. Con- 
ceited writers, for instance, discover their spirit so much in their 
composition, that it imprints on their style a character of pert- 
ness ; though I confess it is difficult to say whether this can be 
classed among the attributes of style, or rather is to be ascribed 
entirely to the thought. In whatever class we rank it, all ap- 
pearances of it ought to be avoided with care, as a most disgust- 
ing blemish in writing. Under the general heads which I have 
considered, I have taken an opportunity of giving the character 
of many of the eminent classics in the English language. 



DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING STYLE, 251 

From what I have said on this subject, it may be inferred, 
that to determine among all these different manners of writing, 
what is precisely the best, is neither easy nor necessary. Style 
is a field that admits of great latitude. Its qualities in different 
authors may be very different ; and yet in them all beautiful. 
Room must be left here for genius ; for that particular determi- 
nation which every one receives from nature to one manner of 
expression more than another. Some general qualities, indeed^ 
there are of such importance, as should always, in every kind of 
composition, be kept in view; and some defects we should 
always study to avoid. An ostentatious, a feeble, a harsh, or 
an obscure style, for instance, are always faults ; and perspicuity, 
strength, neatness, and simplicity, are beauties to be always 
aimed at. But as to the mixture of all, or the degree of pre- 
dominancy of any one of these good qualities, for forming our 
peculiar distinguishing manner, no precise rules can be given ; 
nor will I venture to point out any one model as absolutely 
perfect. 

It will be more to the purpose, that I conclude these disser- 
tations upon style, with a few directions concerning the proper 
method of attaining a good style in general ; leaving the particu- 
lar character of that style to be either formed by the subject on 
which we write, or prompted by the bent of genius. 

The first direction which I give for this purpose, is, to study 
clear ideas on the subject concerning which we are to write or 
speak. This is a direction which may at first appear to have 
small relation to style. Its relation to it, however, is extremely 
close. I The foundation of all good style, is good sense accom- | 
panied with a lively imagination. » The style and thoughts of a 
writer are so intimately connected, that, as I have several times 
hinted, it is frequently hard to distinguish them. Whenever the 
impressions of things upon our minds are faint and indistinct, 
or perplexed and confused, our style in treating of such things 
will infallibly be so too. Whereas, what we conceive clearly 
and feel strongly, we shall naturally express with clearness and 
with strength. This, then, we may be assured, is a capital rule 
as to style, to think closely on the subject till we have attained 
a full and distinct view of the matter which we are to clothe in 
words, till we become warm and interested in it ; then, and not 
till then, shall we find expression begin to flow. Generally 
speaking, the best and most proper expressions are those which 
a clear view of the subject suggests, without much labour or in- 
quiry after them. This is Quintilian's observation, lib. viii. c. 1. 



253 LECTURE XIX. 

« Plerumque optima verba rebus cohaerent, et cernuntur suo 
lumine. At nos quaerimus ilia, tanquam lateant seque subdu- 
cant. Ita nunquam putamus verba esse circa id de quo dicendura 
est ; sed ex aliis locis petimus, et inventus vim afferimus."* 

In the second place, in order to form a good style, the fre- 
quent practice of composing is indispensably necessary. Many 
rules concerning style I have delivered ; but no rules will answer 
the end without exercise and habit. At the same time, it is not 
every sort of composing that will improve style. This is so far 
from being the case, that by frequent careless and hasty compo- 
sition, we shall acquire certainly a very bad style ; we shall have 
more trouble afterwards in unlearning faults and correcting neg- 
ligences, than if we had not been accustomed to composition at 
all. In the beginning, therefore, we ought to write slowly and 
with much care. Let the facility and speed of writing be the 
fruit of longer practice. " Moram et solicitudinem," says Quin- 
tilian with the greatest reason, lib. x. c. 3. " initiis impero. Nam 
primum hoc constituendum ac obtinendum est, ut quam optime 
scribamus : celeritatem dabit consuetudo. Paullatim res facilius 
se ostendent, verba respondebunt, compositio prosequetur. 
Cuncta denique ut in familia bene instituta in officio erunt. 
Summa heec est rei : cito scribendo non fit, ut bene scribatur ; 
bene scribendo fit, ut cito."f 

We must observe, however, that there may be an extreme, 
in too great and anxious care about words. We must not re- 
tard the course of thought, nor cool the heat of imagination, by 
pausing too long on every word we employ ; there is on certain 
occasions a glow of composition which should be kept up, if we 
hope to express ourselves happily, though at the expense of al- 
. lowing some inadvertencies to pass. A more severe examination 
of these must be left to the work of correction. For, if the 
practice of composition be useful, the laborious work of correct- 

* " The most proper words for the most part adhere to the thoughts which 
are to be expressed by them, and may be discovered as by their own light. But 
we hunt after them as if they were hidden, and only to be found in a corner. 
Hence, instead of conceiving the words to lie near the subject, we go in quest ot 
them to some other quarter, and endeavour to give force to the expressions w6 
have found out." 

* " I enjoin that such as are beginning the practice of composition, write 
slowly and with anxious deliberation. Their great object at first should, be, to 
write as well as possible: practice will enable them to write speedily. By 
degrees matter will offer itself still more readily; words will be at hand ; com- 
position will flow ; every thing, as in the arrangement of a well-ordered family, 
will present itself in its proper place. The sum of the whole is this, by hasty 
composition, we shall never acquire the art of composing well ; by writing well, 
we shall come to write speedily." 






DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING STYLE. 253 

ing is no less so ; is indeed absolutely necessary to our reaping 
any benefit from the habit of composition. What we have 
written should be laid by for some little time, till the ardour of 
composition be past, till the fondness for the expressions we 
have used be worn off, and the expressions themselves be for- 
gotten ; and then reviewing our work with a cool and critical 
eye, as if it were the performance of another, we shall discern 
many imperfections which at first escaped us. Then is the 
season for pruning redundancies ; for examining the arrangement 
of sentences ; for attending to the juncture and connecting parti- 
cles ; and bringing style into a regular, correct, and supported 
form. This " lima labor" must be submitted to by all who would 
communicate their thoughts with proper advantage to others ; 
and some practice in it will soon sharpen their eye to the most 
necessary objects of attention, and render it a much more easy 
and practicable work than might at first be imagined. 

In the third place, with respect to the assistance that is to 
be gained from the writings of others, it is obvious, that we 
ought to render ourselves well acquainted with the style of the 
best authors. This is requisite both in order to form a just 
taste in style, and to supply us with a full stock of words on 
every subject. In reading authors with a view to style, atten- 
tion should be given to the peculiarities of their different man- 
ners ; and in this, and former lectures, I have endeavoured to 
suggest several things that may be useful in this view. I know 
no exercise that will be found more useful for acquiring a proper 
style, than to translate some passage from an eminent English 
author into our own words. What I mean is, to take, for in- 
stance, some page of one of Mr. Addison's Spectators, and read 
it carefully over two or three times, till we have got a firm hold 
of the thoughts contained in it ; then to lay aside the book ; to 
attempt to write out the passage from memory, in the best way 
we can ; and having done so, next to open the book, and com- 
pare what we have written with the style of the author. Such 
an exercise will, by comparison, show us where the defects of 
our style lie ; will lead us to the proper attentions for rectifying 
them ; and among the different ways in which the same thought 
may be expressed, will make us perceive that which is the most 
beautiful. But, 

In the fourth place, I must caution, at the same time, against 
a servile imitation of any author whatever. This is always 
dangerous. It hampers genius ; it is likely to produce a stiff 
manner ; and those who are given to close imitation, generally 



254 LECTURE XIX. 

imitate an author.'s faults as well as his beauties. No man will 
ever become a good writer or speaker, who has not some degree 
of confidence to follow his own genius. We ought to beware, 
in particular, of adopting any author's noted phrases, or trans- 
cribing passages from him. Such a habit will prove fatal to all 
genuine composition. Infinitely better it is to have something 
that is our own, though of moderate beauty, than to affect to 
shine in borrowed ornaments, which will, at last, betray the 
utter poverty of our genius. On these heads of composing, 
correcting, reading, and imitating, I advise every student of 
oratory to consult what Quintilian has delivered in the tenth 
book of his Institutions, where he will find a variety of 
excellent observations and directions, that well deserve at- 
tention. 

In the fifth place, it is an obvious, but material rule, with 
respect to style, that we always study to adapt it to the subject, 
and also to the capacity of our hearers, if we are to speak in 
public. Nothing merits the name of eloquent or beautiful, which 
is not suited to the occasion, and to the persons to whom it is 
addressed It is to the last degree awkward and absurd, to attempt 
a poetical florid style, on occasions, when it should be our busi- 
ness only to argue and reason ; or to speak with elaborate pomp 
of expression, before persons who comprehend nothing of it, and 
who can only stare at our unseasonable magnificence. These 
are defects not so much in point of style, as, what is much worse, 
in point of common sense. When we begin to write or speak, 
we ought previously to fix in our minds a clear conception of 
the end to be aimed at ; to keep this steadily in our view, and 
to suit our style to it. If we do not sacrifice to this great ob- 
ject every ill-timed ornament that may occur to our fancy, we 
are unpardonable ; and though children and fools may admire, 
men of sense will laugh at us and our style. 

In the last place, I cannot conclude the subject without 
this admonition, that, in any case, and on any occasion, atten- 
tion to style must not engross us so much, as to detract from 
a higher degree of attention to the thoughts ; " Curam verbo- 
rum," says the great Roman critic, " rerum volo esse solicitu- 
dinem."* A direction the more necessary, as the present taste 
of the age in writing, seems to lean more to style than to 
thought. It is much easier to dress up trivial and common 
sentiments with some beauty of expression, than to afford a fund 
of vigorous, ingenious, and useful thoughts. The latter requires 

*_" To your expression be attentive ; but about your matter be solicitous." 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 256 

true genius ; the former may be attained by industry, with the 
help of very superficial parts. Hence, we find so many writers 
frivolously rich in style, but wretchedly poor in sentiment. 
The public ear is now so much accustomed to a correct and 
ornamented style, that no writer can, with safety, neglect the 
study of it. But he is a contemptible one, who does not look 
to something beyond it ; who does not lay the chief stress upon 
his matter, and employ such ornaments of style to recomend it, 
as are manly, not foppish: " Majore ammo," says the writer 
whom I have so often quoted, " aggredienda est eloquentia j 
quae, si toto corpore valet, ungues polire et capillum com- 
ponere, non existimabit ad curam suam pertinere. Ornatus 
et virilis et fortis et sanctus sit ; nee effeminatam levita- 
tem et fuco ementitum colorem amet : sanguine et viribus 
niteat."* 



LECTURE XX. 



CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE OF MR. ADDISON, IN 
No. 411 OF THE SPECTATOR. 

I HAVE insisted fully on the subject of language and style, 
both because it is, in itself, of great importance, and because it 
is more capable of being ascertained by precise rule, than seve- 
ral other parts of composition. A critical analysis of the style 
of some good author will tend further to illustrate the subject ; 
as it will suggest observations which I have not had occasion to 
make, and will show, in the most practical light, the use of those 
which I have made- 
Mr. Addison is the author whom I have chosen for this pur- 
pose. The Spectator, of which his papers are the chief orna- 
ment, is a book which is in the hands of every one, and which 
cannot be praised too highly. The good sense, and good writ- 
ing, the useful morality, and the admirable vein of humour which 
abound in it, render it one of those standard books which have 
done the greatest honour to the English nation. I have form- 
erly given the general character of Mr. Addison's style and 

* " A higher spirit ought to animate those who study eloquence. They ought 
to consult the health and soundness of the whole body, rather than bend their 
attention to such trifling objects as paring the nails and dressing the hair. Let 
ornament be manly and chaste, without effeminate gaiety, or artificial colouring ; 
let it shine with the glow of health and strength." 



i50 LECTURE XX. 

manner, as natural and unaffected, easy and polite, and full of 
those graces which a flowery imagination diffuses over writing. 
At the same time, though one of the most beautiful writers in the 
language, he is not the most correct ; a circumstance which ren- 
ders his composition the more proper to be the subject of our 
present criticism. The free and flowing manner of this amiable 
writer sometimes led him into inaccuracies, which the more 
studied circumspection and care of far inferior writers have 
taught them to avoid. Remarking his beauties, therefore, which 
I shall have frequent occasion to do as I proceed, I must also 
point out his negligences and defects. Without a free, impartial 
discussion of both the faults and beauties which occur in his 
composition, it is evident this piece of criticism would be of no 
service : and from the freedom which I use in criticising Mr. 
Addison's style, none can imagine, that I mean to depreciate his 
writings, after having repeatedly declared the high opinion which 
I entertain of them. The beauties of this author are so many, 
and the general character of his style is so elegant and estimable, 
that the minute imperfections I shall have occasion to point out, 
are but like those spots in the sun, which may be discovered by 
the assistance of art, but which have no effect in obscuring its 
lustre. It is, indeed, my judgment, that what Quintilian applies 
to Cicero, " Hie se profecisse sciat, cui Cicero valde placebit," 
may, with justice, be applied to Mr. Addison ; that to be highly 
pleased with his manner of writing, is the criterion of one's hav- 
ing acquired a good taste in English style. The paper on which 
we are now to enter, is No. 411, the first of his celebrated essays 
on the Pleasures of the Imagination, in the sixth volume of the 
Spectator. It begins thus : — 

" Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all 
our senses." 

This is an excellent introductory sentence. It is clear, 
precise, and simple. The author lays down in a few plain 
words, the proposition which he is going to illustrate throughout 
the rest of the paragraph. In this manner we should always set 
out. A first sentence should seldom be a long, and never an in- 
tricate one. 

He might have said — ; Our sight is the most perfect and the 
most delightful.' — But he has judged better, in omitting to repeat 
the orticle ' the.' For the repetition of it is proper chiefly when 
we intend to point out the objects of which we speak, as dis- 
tinguished from, or contrasted with, each other; and when we 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 257 

want that the reader's attention should rest on that distinction. 
For instance ; had Mr. Addison intended to say, that our sight 
is at once the most " delightful " and the most " useful " of all 
our senses, the article might then have been repeated with pro- 
priety, as a clear and strong distinction would have been con- 
veyed. But as between "perfect" and "delightful," there is 
less contrast, there was no occasion for such repetition. It 
would have had no other effect, but to add a word unnecessarily 
to the sentence. He proceeds : 

" It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, con- 
verses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues 
the longest in action, without being tired or satiated with its 
proper enjoyments." 

This sentence deserves attention, as remarkably harmonious 
and well constructed. It possesses, indeed, almost all the pro- 
perties of a perfect sentence. It is entirely perspicuous. It is 
loaded with no superfluous or unnecessary words. For " tired 
or satiated," towards the end of the sentence, are not used for 
synonymous terms. They convey distinct ideas, and refer to 
different members of the period ; that this sense " continues the 
longest in action without being tired," that is, without being 
fatigued with its action ; and also, without being " satiated with 
its proper enjoyments." That quality of a good sentence which 
I termed its unity, is here perfectly preserved. It is " our sight" - 
of which he speaks. This is the object carried through the 
sentence, and presented to us in every member of it, by those 
verbs, " fills, converses, continues," to each of which , it is 
clearly the nominative. Those capital words are disposed of 
in the most proper places ; and that uniformity is maintained in 
the construction of the sentence, which suits the unity of the 
object. 

Observe, too, the music of the period ; consisting of three 
members, each of which, agreeably to a rule I formerly men- 
tioned, grows, and rises above the other in sound, till the sen- 
tence is conducted, at last, to one of the most melodious closes 
which our language admits ; " without being tired or satiated 
with its proper enjoyments." " Enjojments," is a word of length 
and dignity, exceedingly proper for a close which is designed to 
be a musical one. The harmony is the more happy, as this 
disposition of the members of the period, which suits the sound 
so well, is no less just and proper with respect to the sense. It 
follows the order of nature. First, we have the variety of ob- 

s 



«58 LECTURE XX. 

jects mentioned, which sight furnishes to the mind ; next, we 
have the action of sight on those objects ; and lastly, we have 
the time and continuance of its action. No order could be more 
natural or happy. 

This sentence has still another beauty. It is figurative 
without being too much so for the subject. A metaphor runs 
through it. The sense of sight is, in some degree, personified. 
We are told of its " conversing with its objects ; and of its 
not being "tired" or "satiated" with its "enjoyments;" all 
which expressions are plain allusions to the actions and feelings 
of men. This is that slight sort of personification, which, 
without any appearance of boldness, and without elevating the 
fancy much above its ordinary state, renders discourse pic- 
turesque, and leads us to conceive the author's meaning more 
distinctly, by clothing abstract ideas, in some degree, with sen- 
sible colours. Mr. Addison abounds with this beauty of 3tyle 
beyond most authors ; and the sentence which we have been 
considering, is very expressive of his manner of writing. There 
is no blemish in it whatever, unless that a strict critic might 
perhaps object, that the epithet " large," which he applies to 
u variety " — " the largest variety of ideas," is an epithet more 
commonly applied to extent than to number. It is plain, that 
he here employed it to avoid the repetition of the word " great, " 
which occurs immediately afterwards. 

The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of ex- 
tension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except 
colours ; but, at the same time, it is very much straitened and 
confined in its operations, to the number, bulk, and distance of 
its particular objects." 

This sentence is by no means so happy as the former. It is, 
indeed, neither clear nor elegant. " Extension and shape," can 
with no propriety, be called " ideas ;" they are properties of 
matter. Neither is it accurate, even according to Mr. Locke's 
philosophy (with which our author seems here to have puzzled 
himself,) to speak of any sense " giving us a notion of ideas ;" 
our senses give us the ideas themselves. The meaning would 
have been much more clear, if the author had expressed himseh 
thus : ' The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us the idea of ex- 
tension, figure, and all the other properties of matter which are 
perceived by the eye, except colours.' 

The latter part of the sentence is still more embarrassed. 
For what meaning can we make of the sense of feeling being 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR. No. 411. 259 

* confined in its operations, to the number, bulk, and distance 
of its particular objects ?" Surely, every sense is confined, as 
much as the sense of feeling, to the number, bulk, and distance 
of its own objects. Sight and feeling are, in this respect, per- 
fectly on a level ; neither of them can extend beyond its own 
objects. The turn of expression is so inaccurate here, that one 
would be apt to suspect two words to have been omitted in the 
printing, which were originally in Mr. Addison's manuscript ; 
; because the insertion of them would render the sense much more 
1 intelligible and clear. These two words are, K with regard :" — 
" it is very much straitened, and confined, in its operations, with 
regard to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular ob- 
jects." The meaning then would be, that feeling is more limited 
than sight ' in this respect ;' that it is confined to a narrower 
circle, to a smaller number of objects. 

The epithet " particular," applied to " objects," in the con- 
clusion of the sentence, is redundant, and conveys no meaning 
whatever. Mr. Addison seems to have used it in place of 
'peculiar,' as indeed he does often in other passages of his 
writings. But "particular" and 'peculiar,' though they are 
too often confounded, are words of different import from each 
other. " Particular " stands opposed to ' general ;' ' peculiar' 
stands opposed to what is possessed ' in common with others. 
u Particular " expresses what in the logical style is called species ; 
' peculiar' what is called differentia. ' Its peculiar objects,' would 
have signified, in this place, the objects of the sense of feeling, 
as distinguished from the objects of any other sense ; and would 
have had more meaning than " its particular objects." Though, 
in truth, neither the one nor the other epithet was requisite. 
It was sufficient to have said simply, ' its objects.' 

" Our sight seems designed to supply all these defects, and 
may be considered as a more delicate and diffusive kind of touch, 
that spreads itself over an infinite multitude of bodies, compre- 
hends the largest figures, and brings into our reach some of the 
most remote parts of the universe." 

Here again the author's style returns upon us in all its 
beauty. This is a sentence distinct, graceful, well arranged, 
and highly musical. In the latter part of it, it is constructed 
with three members, which are formed much in the same manner 
with those of the second sentence, on which I bestowed so much 
praise. The construction is so similar, that if it had followed 
immediately after it, we should have been sensible of a faulty 

s 2 



MO LECTURE XX. 

monotony. But the interposition of another sentence between 
them, prevents this effect. 

" It is this sense which furnishes the imagination with its 
ideas ; so that by the pleasures of the imagination or fancy 
(which I shall use promiscuously,) I here mean such as arise from 
visible objects ; either when we have them actually in our view ; 
or when we call up their ideas into our minds by painting, sta- 
tues, descriptions, or any the like occasion." 

In place of, " it is this sense which furnishes," — the author 
might have said more shortly, ' this sense furnishes.' But the 
mode of expression which he has used, is here more proper. 
This sort of full and ample assertion, " it is this which," is fit to 
be used when a proposition of importance is laid down, to which 
we seek to call the reader's attention. It is like pointing with 
the hand at the object of which we speak. The parenthesis in 
the middle of the sentence, " which I shall use promiscuously," 
is not clear. He ought to have said, ' terms which I shall use 
promiscuously ;' as the verb K use " relates not to the pleasures 
of the imagination, but to the terms of fancy and imagination, 
which he was to employ as synonymous. " Any the like oc- 
casion" — to call a painting or a statue " an occasion," is not a 
happy expression, nor is it very proper to speak of " calling up 
ideas by occasions." The common phrase, ' any such means,* 
would have been more natural. 

" We cannot indeed have a single image in the fancy that 
did not make its first entrance through the sight ; but we have 
the power of retaining, altering, and compounding those images 
which we have once received, into all the varieties of picture and 
vision that are most agreeable to the imagination ; for, by this 
faculty, a man in a dungeon is capable of entertaining himself 
with scenes and landscapes more beautiful than any that can be 
found in the whole compass of nature." 

It may be of use to remark, that in one member of this sen- 
tence there is an inaccuracy in syntax. It is very proper to say, 
" altering and compounding those images which we have once 
received, into all the varieties of picture and vision." But we 
can with no propriety say, * retaining them into all the varieties ;" 
and yet, according to the manner in which the words are ranged, 
this construction is unavoidable. For " retaining, altering, and 
compounding," are participles, each of which equally refers to, 
and governs the subsequent noun, u those images ;" and that 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. *M 

noun again is necessarily connected with the following prepo- 
sition, " into." This instance shows the importance of carefully 
attending to the rules of grammar and syntax ; when so pure a 
writer as Mr. Addison could, through inadvertence, be guilty of 
such an error. The construction might easily have been rec- 
tified, by disjoining the participle "retaining" from the other 
two participles in this way : ' We have the power of retaining 
those images which we have once received : and of altering and 
compounding them into all the varieties of picture and vision ;' 
or better perhaps thus : ' We have the power of retaining, 
altering, and compounding those images which we have once 
received ; and of forming them into all the varieties of picture 
and vision.' — The latter part of the sentence is clear and 
elegant. ' 

" There are few words in the English language, which are 
employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense than those 
of the fancy and the imagination." 

" There are few words — which are employed." — It had 
been better, if our author here had said more simply — ' Few 
words in the English language are employed/ — Mr. Addison, 
whose style is of the free and full, rather than the nervous kind, 
deals, on all occasions, in this extended sort of phraseology. 
But it is proper only when some assertion of consequence is 
advanced, and which can bear an emphasis ; such as that in the 
first sentence of the former paragraph. On other occasions, 
these little words, ' it is/ and 'there are,' ought to be avoided, 
as redundant and enfeebling. — " Those of the fancy and the 
imagination." The article ought to have been omitted here. As 
he does not mean the powers of " the fancy and the imagination," 
but the words only, the article certainly had no proper place ; 
neither indeed was there any occasion for the other two words, 
"those of." Better, if the sentence had run thus : 'Few words in 
the English language are employed in a more loose and uncir- 
cumscribed sense, than fancy and imagination.' 

" I therefore thought it necessary to fix and determine the 
notion of these two words, as I intend to make use of them in 
the thread of my following speculations, that the reader may con- 
ceive rightly what is the subject which I proceed upon." 

Though " fix" and " determine" may appear synonymous 
words, yet a difference between them may be remarked, and 
they may be viewed, as applied here, with peculiar delicacy. 



2«a LECTURE XX. 

The author had just said, that the words of which lie is speak 
ing were " loose" and " uncircumscribed." * Fix" relates to the 
first of these, " determine" to the last. We 'fix' what is ' loose; 
that is, we confine the word to its proper place, that it may not 
fluctuate in our imagination, and pass from one idea to another ; 
and we ' determine' what is ' uncircumscribed', that is, we ascer- 
tain its termini,, or limits ; we draw the circle round it, that we 
may see its boundaries. For we cannot conceive the meaning of 
a word, nor indeed of any other thing, clearly, till we see its 
limits, and know how far it extends. These two words, there- 
fore, have grace and beauty as they are here applied ; though a 
writer, more frugal of words than Mr. Addison, would have pre- 
ferred the single word ' ascertain,' which conveys, without any 
metaphor, the import of them both. 

The " notion of these words" is somewhat of a harsh phrase, 
at least not so commonly used, as the " meaning of these 
words." — a As I intend to make use of them in the thread of 
my speculations ;" this is plainly faulty. A sort of metaphor is 
improperly mixed with words in the literal sense. He might 
very well have said, ' as I intend to make use. of them in my 
following speculations,' This was plain language ; but if he 
chose to borrow an allusion from " thread," that allusion ought 
to have been supported ; for there is no consistency in u making 
use of them in the thread of speculations ;" and indeed, in ex- 
pressing any thing so simple and familiar as this is, plain lan- 
guage is always to be preferred to metaphorical. — " The subject 
which I proceed upon," is an ungraceful close of a sentence ; 
better, " the subject upon which I proceed." 

K I must therefore desire him to remember, that by the 
pleasures of the imagination, I mean only such pleasures as 
arise originally from sight, and that I divide these pleasures into 
two kinds." 

As the last sentence began with — " I therefore thought it 
necessary to fix," it is careless to begin this sentence in a 
manner so very similar, " I must therefore desire him to re- 
member ;" especially, as the small variation of using, ' on this 
account,' or ' for this reason,' in place of " therefore" would have 
amended the style. — When he says, " I mean only such plea- 
sures," it may be remarked, that the adverb " only" is not in 
its proper place. It is not intended here to qualify the verb 
" mean," but " such pleasures ;" and therefore should have 
been placed in as close connection as possible with the word 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR No. 411. 263 

which it limits or qualifies The style becomes more clear and 
neat, when the words are arranged thus : ' by the pleasures of 
the imagination, I mean such pleasures only as arise from 
sight.' 

My design being, first of all, to discourse of those primary 
pleasures of the imagination, which entirely proceed from such 
Jbjects as are before our eyes ; and, in the next place, to speak 
of those secondary pleasures of the imagination, which flow 
from the ideas of visible objects, when the objects are not 
actually before the eye, but are called up into our memories, or 
formed into agreeable visions of things, that are either absent, 
or fictitious." 

It is a great rule in laying down the division of a subject, 
to study neatness and brevity as much as possible. The 
divisions are then more distinctly apprehended, and more easily 
remembered. This sentence is not perfectly happy in that re- 
spect. It is somewhat clogged by a tedious phraseology. " My 
design being first of all to discourse — in the next place to speak 
of — such objects as are before our eyes — things that are either 
absent or fictitious." Several words might have been spared 
here ; and the style made more neat and compact. 

" The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, 
are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the 
understanding." 

This sentence is distinct and elegant. 

" The last are indeed more preferable, because they are 
founded on some new knowledge or improvement in the mind of 
man: yet it must be confessed, that those of the imagination are 
as great, and as transporting as the other." 

In the begining of this sentence, the phrase, " more prefer- 
able" is such a plain inaccuracy, that one wonders how Mr. 
Addison should have fallen into it; seeing " preferable," of it- 
self, expresses the comparative degree, and is the same with more 
eligible, or more excellent. 

I must observe further, that the proposition contained in the 
last member of this sentence, is neither clear nor neatly ex 
pressed : " it must be confessed, that those of the imagination 
are as great, and as transporting as the other." — In the former 
sentence, he had compared tnree things together ; the pleasures 
of the imagination, those of sense, and those of the understanding. 
In the begining of this sentence, he had called the pleasures of 



264 LECTURE XX. 

the understanding " the last :" and he ends the sentence with 
observing, that those of the imagination are as great and trans- 
porting * as the other." Now, besides that " the other" makes 
not a proper contrast with " the last," he leaves it ambiguous, 
whether, by " the other," he meant the pleasures of the under- 
standing, or the pleasures of sense ; for it may refer to either by 
the construction, though, undoubtedly, he intended that it should 
refer to the pleasures of the understanding only. The proposi- 
tion, reduced to perspicuous language, runs thus : ' Yet it must 
be confessed, that the pleasures of the imagination, when com- 
pared with those of the understanding, are no less great and 
transporting.' 

" A beautiful prospect delights the soul as much as a demon- 
stration ; and a description in Homer has charmed more readers 
than a chapter in Aristotle." 

This is a good illustration of what he had been asserting, and 
is expressed with that happy and elegant turn for which our au- 
thor is very remarkable. 

" Besides, the pleasures of the imagination have this advan- 
tage, above those of the understanding, that they are more obvi- 
ous, and more easy to be acquired." 

This is also an unexceptionable sentence. 

* It is but opening the eye, and the scene enters." 

This sentence is lively and picturesque. By the gaiety and 
briskness which it gives the style, it shows the advantage of in- 
termixing such a short sentence as this amidst a run of longer 
ones, which never fails to have a happy effect. I must remark, 
however, a small inaccuracy. A " scene" cannot be said to 
" enter ;" an actor enters ; but a scene ' appears/ or ' presents 
itself.' 

* The colours paint themselves on the fancy, with very 
little attention of thought or application of mind in the 
beholder." 

This is still beautiful illustration ; carried on with that agree- 
able floweriness of fancy and style, which is so well suited 
to those pleasures of the imagination, of which the author is 
treating. 

" We are struck, we know not how, with the symmetry of 
any thing we see., and immediately assent to the beauty of an 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 205 

object, without inquiring into the particular causes and occa- 
sions of it." 

There is a falling off here from the elegance of the former 
sentences. We " assent" to the truth of a proposition ; but 
cannot so well be said to " assent to the beauty of an object." 
' Acknowledge/ would have expressed the sense with more 
propriety. The close of the sentence too is heavy and ungrace- 
ful — " the particular causes and occasions of it" — both " particu- 
lar" and " occasions" are words quite superfluous ; and the 
pronoun " it" is in some measure ambiguous, whether it refers 
to " beauty" or to " object." It would have been some amend- 
ment to the style to have run thus : ' We immediately acknow- 
ledge the beauty of an object, without inquiring into the cause of 
that beauty/ 

" A man of a polite imagination is let into a great many 
pleasures that the vulgar are not capable of receiving." 

* Polite" is a term more commonly applied to manners or 
behaviour, than to the mind or imagination. There is nothing 
further to be observed on this sentence, unless the use of " that" 
for a relative pronoun, instead of ' which ;' an usage which is too 
frequent with Mr. Addison. ' Which' is a much more definite 
word than " that," being never employed in any other way than 
as a relative ; whereas, " that" is a word of many senses ; some- 
times a demonstrative pronoun ; often a conjunction. In some 
cases we are indeed obliged to use " that" for a relative, in 
order to avoid the ungraceful repetition of ' which' in the same 
sentence. But when we are laid under no necessity of this 
kind, ' which' is always the preferable word, and certainly 
was so in this sentence — " Pleasures which the vulgar are not 
capable of receiving," is much better than " pleasures that the 
vulgar," &c. 

" He can converse with a picture, and find an agreeable 
companion in a statue. He meets with a secret refreshment 
in a description ; and often feels a greater satisfaction in the 
prospect of fields and meadows, than another does in the 
possession. It gives him, indeed, a kind of property in every 
thing he sees, and makes the most rude, uncultivated parts of 
nature administer to his pleasures : so that he looks upon the 
world, as it were, in another light, and discovers in it a multi- 
tude of charms that conceal themselves from the generality of 
mankind." 



26G LECTURE XX. 

All this is very beautiful. The illustration is happy ; and 
the style runs with the greatest ease and harmony. We see 
no labour, no stiffness, or affectation; but an author writing 
from the native flow of a gay and pleasing imagination. 
This predominant character of Mr. Addison's manner, far 
more than compensates all those little negligences which we 
are now remarking. Two of these occur in this paragrap . 
The first, in the sentence which begins with, " It gives him in- 
deed a kind of property" — To this " it," there is no proper 
antecedent in the whole paragraph. In order to gather the 
meaning, we must look back as far as to the third sentence 
before the first of the paragraph, which begins with, " A man of 
a polite imagination." This phrase, " polite imagination" is the 
only antecedent to which this " it" can refer : and even that is an 
improper antecedent, as it stands in the genitive case, as the 
qualification only of a man. 

The other instance of negligence, is towards the end of the 
paragraph — " So that he looks upon the world, as it were, in 
another light." — By " another" light, Mr. Addison means, a 
light different from that in which other men view the world. 
But though this expression clearly conveyed this meaning to 
himself when writing, it conveys it very indistinctly to others ; 
and is an instance of that sort of inaccuracy, into which, in the 
warmth of composition, every writer of a lively imagination is 
apt to fall ; and which can only be remedied by a cool subsequent 
review. — " As it were" — is upon most occasions no more than 
an ungraceful palliative, and here there was not the least occa- 
sion for it, as he was not about to say any thing which required 
a softening of this kind. To say the truth, this last sentence, 
" so that he looks upon the world," and what follows, had better 
been wanting altogether. It is no more than an unnecessary 
recapitulation of what had gone before ; a feeble adjection to the 
lively picture he had given of the pleasures of the imagination. 
The paragraph would have ended with more spirit at the words 
immediately preceding ; " The uncultivated parts of nature ad- 
minister to his pleasures." 

" There are, indeed, but very few who know how to be idle 
and innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are not 
criminal ; every diversion they take, is at the expense of some 
one virtue or anothei-, and their very first step out of business is 
into vice or folly." 

Nothing can be more elegant, or more finely turned, than 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 2G7 

this sentence. It is neat, clear, and musical. We could 
hardly alter one word, or disarrange one member, without 
spoiling it. Few sentences are to be found more finished, or 
more happy. 

" A man should endeavour, therefore, to make the sphere of 
his innocent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may retire 
into them with safety, and find in them such a satisfaction as a 
wise man would not blush to take." 

This also is a good sentence, and gives occasion to no 
material remark. 

" Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do not 
require such a bent of thought as is necessary to our more 
serious employments, nor, at the same time, suifer the mind to 
sink into that indolence and remissness, which are apt to ac- 
company our more sensual delights ; but, like a gentle exercise 
to the faculties, awaken them from sloth and idleness, without 
putting them upon any labour or difficulty." 

The beginning of this sentence is not correct, and affords an 
instance of a period too loosely connected with the preceding 
one. " Of this nature," says he, " are those of the imagination." 
We might ask, of what nature ? for it had not been the scope of 
the preceding sentence to describe the nature of any set of plea- 
sures. He had said, that it was every man's duty to make the 
sphere of his innocent pleasures as wide as possible, in order 
that, within that sphere, he might find a safe retreat, and a 
laudable satisfaction. The transition is loosely made, by begin- 
ning the next sentence with saying, " Of this nature are those of 
the imagination." It had been better, if, keeping in view the 
governing object of the preceding sentence, he had said, ' This 
advantage we gain,' or, ' This satisfaction we enjoy, by means 
of the pleasures of imagination. The rest of the sentence is 
abundantly correct. 

" We might here add, that the pleasures of the fancy are 
more conducive to health than those of the understanding, which 
are worked out by dint of thinking, and attended with too vio- 
lent a labour of the brain." 

On this sentence nothing occurs deserving of remark, except 
that " worked out by dint of thinking," is a phrase which borders 
too much on vulgar and colloquial language, to be proper for 
being employed in a polished composition. 



TAB LECTURE XX. 

" Delightful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or poetry, 
have a kindly influence on the body, as well as the mind, and 
not only serve to clear and brighten the imagination, but are 
able to disperse grief and melancholy, and to set the animal 
spirits in pleasing and agreeable motions. For this reason Sir 
Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, has not thought it 
improper to prescribe to his reader a poem, or a prospect, 
where he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtile 
disquisitions, and advises him to pursue studies that fill the 
mind with splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, fables, 
and contemplations of nature." 

In the latter of these two sentences, a member of the period 
is altogether out of its place ; which gives the whole sentence a 
harsh and disjointed cast, and serves to illustrate the rules I 
formerly gave concerning arrangement. The wrong-placed 
member, which I point at, is this * where he particularly dis- 
suades him from knotty and subtile disquisitions ;" these words 
should undoubtedly, have been placed, not where they stand, 
but thus : ' Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, 
where he particularly dissuades the reader from knotty and sub- 
tile speculations, has not thought it improper to prescribe to 
him,' &c. This arrangement reduces every thing into proper 
order. 

" I have in this paper, by way of introduction, settled the 
notion of those pleasures of the imagination, which are the 
subject of my present undertaking ; and endeavoured, by seve- 
ral considerations, to recommend to my readers the pursuit of 
those pleasures : I shall, in my next paper, examine the several 
sources from whence these pleasures are derived." 

These two concluding sentences afford examples of the proper 
collocation of circumstances in a period. I formerly showed, that 
it is often a matter of difficulty to dispose of them in such a man- 
ner, as that they shall not embarrass the principal subject of the 
sentence. In the sentences before us, several of these incident 
circumstances necessarily come in — " by way of introduction — 
by several considerations — in this paper — in the next paper." 
All which are, with great propriety, managed by our author. It 
will be found, upon trial, that there were no other parts of the 
sentence, in which they could have been placed to equal advan- 
tage. Had he said, for instance, ' I have settled the notion (ra- 
ther the meaning) — of those pleasures of the imagination, which 
are the subject of my present undertaking, J?y way of introduc- 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 269 

tion in this paper, and endeavoured to recommend the pursuit of 
those pleasures to my readers "by several considerations ;' we 
must be sensible, that the sentence, thus clogged with circum- 
stances in the wrong place, would neither have been so neat no? 
so clear, as it is by the present construction. 



LECTURE XXI. 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No. 412 OF 
THE SPECTATOR. 

The observations which have occurred in reviewing that 
paper of Mr. Addison's, which was the subject of the last lec- 
ture, sufficiently show, that, in the writings of an author of the 
most happy genius and distinguished talents, inaccuracies may 
sometimes be found. Though such inaccuracies may be over- 
balanced by so many beauties, as to render the style pleasing 
and agreeable upon the whole ; yet it must be desirable to every 
writer to avoid, as far as he can, inaccuracy of any kind. As 
the subject, therefore, is of importance, I have thought it might 
be useful to carry on this criticism throughout two or three sub- 
sequent papers of the Spectator. At the same time I must inti- 
mate, that the lectures on these papers are solely intended for 
such as are applying themselves to the study of English style. 
I pretend not to give instruction to those who are already well 
acquainted with the powers of language. To them my remarks 
may prove unedifying ; to some they may seem tedious and mi- 
nute ; but to such as have not yet made all the proficieucy which 
they desire in elegance of style, strict attention to the composi- 
tion and structure of sentences cannot fail to prove of conside- 
rable benefit : and though my remarks on Mr. Addison should, 
in any instance, be thought ill-founded, they will, at least, serve 
the purpose of leading them into the train of making proper re- 
marks for themselves. * — I proceed, therefore, to the examina» 
tion of the subsequent paper, No. 412. 

* If there, be readers who think any further apology requisite for my adven- 
turing to criticise the sentences of so eminent an author as Mr. Addison, I must 
take notice, that I was naturally led to it by the circumstances of that part of 
the kingdom where these Lectures were read ; where the ordinary spoken lan- 
guage often differs much from what is used by good English authors. Hence 
it occurred to me, as a proper method of correcting any peculiarities of dialect, 
to direct students of eloquence, to analyze and examine, with particular atten- 
tion, the. structure of Mr. Addison's sentences. Those papers of the Spectator, 
w luch are the subject cf the following Lectures, were accordingly given out \u 



270 LECTURE XXI. 

« I shall first consider those pleasures of the imagination, 
which arise from the actual view and survey of outward objects : 
and these, I think, all proceed from the sight of what is great, 
uncommon, or beautiful." 

This sentence gives occasion for no material remark. It 
is simple and distinct. The two words which he here uses, 
" view" and " survey," are not altogether synonymous : as the 
former may be supposed to import mere inspection ; the latter 
more deliberate examination. Yet they lie so near to one 
another in meaning, that in the present case, any one of them, 
perhaps, would have been sufficient. The epithet " actual," is 
introduced, in order to mark more strongly the distinction be- 
tween what our author calls the primary pleasures of imagina- 
tion, which arise from immediate view, and the secondary, which 
arise from remembrance or description. 

u There may, indeed, be something so terrible or offensive 
that the horror or loathsomeness of an object may overbear the 
pleasure which results from its novelty, greatness, or beauty ; 
but still there will be such a mixture of delight in the very dis- 
gust it gives us, as any of these three qualifications are most 
conspicuous and prevailing." 

This sentence must be acknowledged to be an unfortunate 
one. The sense is obscure and embarrassed, and the expression 
loose and irregular. The beginning of it is perplexed by the 
wrong posit'on of the words " something" and " object." The 
natural arrangement would have been, " There may, indeed, be 
something in an object so terrible or offensive, that the horror or 
loathsomeness of it may overbear." — These two epithets, " hor- 
ror" or " loathsomeness," are awkwardly joined together. 
" Loathsomeness" is, indeed, a quality which may be ascribed 
to an object ; but " horror" is not, it is a feeling excited in the 
mind. The language would have been much more correct, had 
our author said, 'There may, indeed, be something in an object 
so terrible or offensive, that the horror or disgust which it ex- 
cites may overbear.' — The first two epithets, " terrible" or " of- 
fensive," would then have expressed the qualities of an object ; 
the latter, " horror" or " disgust," the corresponding sentiments 
which these qualities produce in us. " Loathsomeness" was the 
most unhappy word he could have chosen : for to be loathsome, 

exercise to students, to be thus examined and analyzed ; and several of the obser- 
vations which follow, both on the beauties and blemishes of this author, were sng 
gested by the observations given to me in consequence of the exercise prescribed 






STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 271 

is to be odious, and seems totally to exclude any « mixture of 
delight," which he afterwards supposes may be found in the 
object. 

In the latter part of the sentence there are several inaccura- 
cies. When he says, « there will be such a mixture of delight 
in the very disgust it gives us, as any of these three qualifica- 
tions are most conspicuous" — the construction is defective, and 
seems hardly grammatical. He meant assuredly to say, ' such 
a mixture of delight as is proportioned to the degree in which 
any of these three qualifications are most conspicuous.' — We 
know that there may be a mixture of pleasant and of disa- 
greeable feelings excited by the same object ; yet it appears in- 
accurate to say, that there is any " delight in the very disgust." 
— The plural verb " are" is improperly joined to " any of these 
three qualifications ;" for as " any" is here used distributively, 
and means ' any one of these three qualifications,' the corres- 
ponding verb ought to have been singular. The order in which 
the two last words are placed, should have been reversed, and 
made to stand ' prevailing and conspicuous.' They are " con- 
spicuous" because they prevail. 

" By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single 
object, but the largeness of a whole view, considered as one en- 
tire piece" 

In a former lecture, when treating of the structure of sen- 
tences, I quoted this sentence as an instance of the careless 
manner in which adverbs are sometimes interjected in the midst 
of a period. " Only," as it is here placed, appears to be a lim- 
itation of the following verb, " mean." The question might be 
put, What more does he than " only mean ?" As the author 
undoubtedly, intended it to refer to the " bulk of a single 
object," it would have been placed, with more propriety, after 
these words : ' I do not mean the bulk of any single object 
only, but the largeness of a whole view.' — As the following 
phrase, " considered as one entire piece," seems to be some- 
what deficient, both in dignity and propriety, perhaps this ad- 
jection might have been altogether omitted, and the sentence 
have closed with fully as much advantage at the word " view." 

* Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, a 
vast uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high rocks 
and precipices, or a wide expanse of waters, where we are not 
struck with the novelty or beauty of the sight, but with that 



272 LECTURE XXI. 

rude kind of magnificence which appears in many of these stu- 
pendous works of nature. 

This sentence, in the main, is beautiful. The objects pre- 
sented are all of them noble, selected with judgment, arranged 
with propriety, and accompanied with proper epithets. We 
must, however, observe, that the sentence is too loosely, and not 
very grammatically, connected with the preceding one. He 
says, — " such are the prospects ;" — " such," signifies of that 
nature or quality, which necessarily presupposes some adjective, 
or word descriptive of a quality going before, to which it refers. 
But in the foregoing sentence there is no such adjective. He 
had spoken of " greatness" in the abstract only ; and, there- 
fore, " such" has no distinct antecedent to which we can refer it. 
The sentence would have been introduced with more grammati- 
cal propriety, by saying, ' To this class belong,' or, ' under this 
head are ranged the prospects,' &c. The " of," which is prefixed 
to " huge heaps of mountains," is misplaced, and has perhaps 
been an error in the printing ; as, either all the particulars 
here enumerated should have had this mark of the genitive, or 
it should have been prefixed to none but the first. — When, in 
the close of the sentence the author speaks of that K rude mag- 
nificence which appears in many of these stupendous works of 
nature," he had better have omitted the word " many," which 
seems to except some of them. Whereas, in his general pro- 
position, he undoubtedly meant to include all the stupendous 
•works he had enumerated ; and there is no question, that, in all 
of them, a rude magnificence appears. 

" Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp 
at any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are flung into 
a pleasing astonishment at such unbounded views ; and feel-a 
delightful stillness and amazement in the soul, at the apprehen- 
sion of them.* 

The language here is elegant, and several of the expressions 
remarkably happy. There is nothing which requires any ani- 
madversion except the close, u at the apprehension of them." 
Not only is this a languid enfeebling conclusion of a sentence, 
otherwise beautiful, but " the apprehension of views," is a phrase 
destitute of all propriety, and, indeed, scarcely intelligible. Had 
this adjection been entirely omitted, and the sentence been al- 
lowed to close with " stillness and amazement in the soul," it 
would have been a great improvement. Nothing is frequently 



STYLE TN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 273 

more hurtful to the grace or vivacity of a period, than superfluous 
dragging words at the conclusion. 

" The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks 
like a restraint upon it, and it is apt to fancy itself under a sort 
of confinement, when the sight is pent up in a narrow compass, 
and shortened on every side by the neighbourhood of walls or 
mountains. On the contrary, a spacious horizon is an image of 
liberty, where the eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at 
large on the immensity of its views, and to lose itself amidst 
the variety of objects that offer themselves to its observation. 
Such wide and undetermined prospects are pleasing to the fancy, 
as the speculations of eternity, or infinitude, are to the under- 
standing." 

Our author's style appears here in all that native beauty 
which cannot be too much praised. The numbers flow smoothly, 
and with a graceful harmony. The words which he has chosen, 
carry a certain amplitude and fulness, well suited to the nature 
of the subject ; and the members of the periods rise in a grada- 
tion, accommodated to the rise of the thought. The eye first 
* ranges abroad ;" then " expatiates at large on the immensity of 
its views ;" and, at last, " loses itself amidst the variety of objects 
that offer themselves to its observation." The " fancy" is ele- 
gantly contrasted with the " understanding ;" " prospects" with 
" speculations ;" and " wide and undetermined prospects" with 
" speculations of eternity and infinitude. 

* But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with this 
grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with stars 
and meteors, or a spacious landscape cut out into rivers, woods, 
rocks, and meadows, the pleasure still grows upon us, as it 
arises from more than a single principle." 

The article prefixed to " beauty," in the beginning of this sen- 
tence, might have been omitted, and the style have run, perhaps, 
to more advantage thus : 'But if beauty, or uncommonness, be 
joined to this grandeur.' — ' A landscape cut out into rivers, 
woods,' &c. seems unseasonably to imply an artificial formation, 
and would have been better expressed by, ' diversified with rivers, 
woods,' &c. 

" Every thing that is new or uncommon raises a pleasure in 
the imagination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable sur- 
prise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which it was 
not before possessed. We are, indeed, so often conversant with 

T 



274 LECTURE XXI. 

one set of objects, and tired out with so many repeated shows of 
the same things, that whatever is new or uncommon contributes 
a little to vary human life, and to divert our minds, for a 
while, with the strangeness of its appearance. It serves us for a 
kind of refreshment, and takes off from that satiety we are apt 
to complain of in our usual and ordinary entertainments." 

The style in these sentences flows in an easy and agree- 
able manner. A severe critic might point out some expressions 
that would bear being retrenched. But this would alter the 
genius and character of Mr. Addison's style. We must always 
remember, that good composition admits of being carried on 
under many different forms. Style must not be reduced to 
one precise standard. One writer may be as agreeable, by a 
pleasing diffuseness, when the subject bears, and his genius 
prompts it, as another by a concise and forcible manner. It is 
fit, however, to observe, that in the beginning of those sentences 
which we have at present before us, the phrase, " raises a 
pleasure in the imagination," is unquestionably too flat and 
feeble, and might easily be amended, by saying, ' affords 
pleasure to the imagination ;' and towards the end, there are two 
" of's," which grate harshly on the ear, in that phrase, " takes 
off from that satiety we are apt to complain of;" where the cor- 
rection is as easily made as in the other case, by substituting 
'diminishes that satiety of which we are apt to complain.' Such 
instances show the advantage of frequent reviews of what we 
have written, in order to give proper correctness and polish to 
our language. 

'* It is this which bestows charms on a monster, and makes 
even the imperfections of nature please us. It is this that 
recommends variety, where the mind is every instant called oft 
to something new,' and the attention not suffered to dwell too 
long, and waste itself on any particular object. It is this like- 
wise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and makes it 
afford the mind a double entertainment." 

Still the style proceeds with perspicuity, grace, and harmony. 
The full and ample assertion, with which each of these sentences 
is introduced, frequent, on many occasions, with our author, is 
here proper and seasonable ; as it was his intention to magnify, 
as much as possible, the effects of novelty and variety, and to 
draw our attention to them. His frequent use of " that" instead 
of " which," is another peculiarity of his style ; but, on this oc- 
casion in particular, cannot be much commended, as, " it is this 






STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 275 

which," seems, in every view, to be better than, " it is this tlisit," 
three times repeated. I mast likewise take notice, that the 
antecedent to, " it is this," when critically considered, is not 
altogether proper. It refers, as we discover by the sense, to 
" whatever is new or uncommon." But, as it is not good lan- 
guage to say, " whatever is new bestows charms on a monster," 
one cannot avoid thinking that' our author had done better to 
have begun the first of these three sentences, with saying, * it is 
novelty which bestows charms on a monster,' &c. 

" Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any season of the yeat 
pleasant to look upon, but never so much as in the opening of 
the spring, when they are all new and fresh, with their first gloss 
upon them, and not yet too much accustomed and familiar to 
the eye." 

In this expression, " never so much as in the opening of the 
spring," there appears to be a small error in grammar ; for 
when the construction is filled up, it must be read, ' never so 
much pleasant.' Had he, to avoid this, said, ' never go much 
so/ the grammatical error would have been prevented, but the 
language would have been awkward. Better to have said, ' but 
never so agreeable as in the opening of the spring.' We readily 
say, the eye is accustomed to objects ; but to say, as our author 
has done at the close of the sentence, that objects are " ac- 
customed to the eye," can scarcely be allowed in a prose com- 
position. 

" For this reason, there is nothing that more enlivens a pros- 
pect than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where the scene is 
perpetually shifting, and entertaining the sight, every moment, 
with something that is new. We are quickly tired with look- 
ing at hills and valleys, where every thing continues fixed and 
settled in the same place and posture, but find our thoughts a 
little agitated and relieved at the sight of such objects as are 
ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the eye of the 
beholder." 

The first of these sentences is connected in too loose a man- 
ner with that which immediately preceded it. When he says, 
" For this reason, there is nothing that more enlivens," &c. we 
are entitled to look for the " reason" in what he had just before 
said. But there we find no " reason" for what he is now going 
to assert, except that groves and meadows are most pleasant in 
the spring. We know that he has been speaking of the plea- 

T 2 



276 LECTURE XXI. 

sure produced by novelty and variety, and our minds naturally 
recur to this, as the reason here alluded to ; but his language 
does not properly express it. It is, indeed, one of the defects of 
this amiable writer, that his sentences are often too negligently 
connected with one another. His meaning, upon the whole, we 
gather with ease from the tenour of his discourse. Yet this 
negligence prevents his sense from striking us with that force 
and evidence, which a more accurate juncture of parts would 
have produced. Bating this inaccuracy, these two sentences, 
especially the latter, are remarkably elegant and beautiful. The 
close, in particular, is uncommonly fine, and carries as much ex- 
pressive harmony as the language can admit. It seems to paint 
what he is describing, at once to the eye and the ear. — * Such 
objects as are ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the 
eye of the beholder." — Indeed, notwithstanding those small 
errors, which the strictness of critical examination obliges me 
to point out, it may be safely pronounced, that the two para- 
graphs which we have now considered in this paper, the one 
concerning greatness, and the other concerning novelty, are 
extremely worthy of Mr. Addison, and exhibit a style, which 
they who can successfully imitate, may esteem themselves 
happy. 

B But there is nothing that makes its way more directly 
to the soul than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret 
satisfaction and complacency through the imagination, and 
gives a finishing to any thing that is great or uncommon. 
The very first discovery of it strikes the mind with an inward 
joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through all its 
faculties." 

Some degree of verbosity may be here discovered, as 
phrases are repeated which seem little more than the echo of 
one another ; such as " diffusing satisfaction and complacency 
through the imagination — striking the mind with inward joy 
— spreading cheerfulness and delight through all its faculties." 
At the same time, I readily admit, that this full and flowing style, 
even though it carry some redundancy, is not unsuitable to the 
gaiety of the subject on which the author is entering, and is 
more allowable here, than it would have been on some other 
occasions. 

* There is not, perhaps, any real beauty or deformity more in 
one piece of matter than another ; because we might have been 
so made, that whatever now appears loathsome to us, might 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 27" 

have shown itself agreeable ; but we find by experience, that 
there are several modifications of matter, which the mind, without 
any previous consideration, pronounces at first sight beautiful or 
deformed." 

In this sentence there is nothing remarkable, in any view, to 
draw our attention. We may observe only, that the word 
« more," towards the beginning, is not in its proper place, and 
that the preposition "in" is wanting before "another." The 
phrase ought to have stood thus — ' Beauty or deformity in one 
piece of matter, more than in another.' 

u Thus we see, that every different species of sensible crea- 
tures has its different notions of beauty, and that each of them is 
most affected with the beauties of its own kind. This is nowhere 
more remarkable than in birds of the same shape and propor- 
tion, when we often see the male determined in his courtship by 
the single grain or tincture of a feather, and never discovering 
any charms but in the colour of its species." 

Neither is there here any particular elegance or felicity of 
language. — 'Different sense of beauty' would have been a more 
proper expression to have been applied to irrational creatures, 
than as it stands, " different notions of beauty." In the close of 
the second sentence, when the author says, * colour of its 
species," he is guilty of a considerable inaccuracy in changing 
the gender, as he had said in the same sentence that the " male 
was determined in his courtship." 

" There is a second kind of beauty, that we find in the 
several products of art and nature, which does not work in the 
imagination with that warmth and violence, as the beauty that 
appears in our proper species, but is apt, however, to raise in 
us a secret delight, and a kind of fondness for the places or 
object in which we discover it." 

Still, I am sorry to say, we find little to praise. As in his 
enunciation of the subject, when beginning the former para- 
graph, he appeared to have been treating of beauty in general, 
in distinction from greatness or novelty ; this " second kind of 
beauty," of which he here speaks, comes upon us in a sort of 
surprise, and it is only by degrees we learn, that formerly he had 
no more in view than the beauty which the different species of 
sensible creatures find in one another. This u second kind of 
beauty," he says, " we find in the several products of art and 
nature." He undoubtedly means, not in all, but ' in several of 



\ 



278 LECTURE XXI. 

the products of art and nature ;' and ought so to have expressed 
himself; and in the place of " products" to have used also the 
more proper word " productions." When he adds, that this 
kind of beauty " does not work in the imagination with that 
warmth and violence as the beauty that appears in our proper 
species ;" the language would certainly have been more pure 
and elegant, if he had said, that it ' does not work upon the 
imagination with such warmth and violence, as the beauty that 
appears in our own species.' 

" This consists either in the gaiety or variety of colours, in 
the symmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and 
disposition of bodies, or in a just mixture and concurrence of 
all together. Among these several kinds of beauty, the eye 
takes most delight in colours." 

To the language here, I see no objection that can be made. 

* We no where meet with a more glorious or pleasing show 
in nature, than what appears in the heavens at the rising and 
setting of the sun, which is wholly made up of those different 
stains of light, that show themselves in clouds of a different 
situation." 

The chief ground of criticism on this sentence, is the dis- 
jointed situation of the relative " which." Grammatically, it 
refers " to the rising and setting of the sun." But the author 
meant, that it should refer to " the show which appears in the 
heavens at that time. It is too common among authors, when 
they are writing without much care, to make such particles as 
" this " and " which," refer not to any particular antecedent word, 
but to the tenor of some phrase, or perhaps the scope of some 
whole sentence, which has gone before, This practice saves 
them trouble in marshalling their words, and arranging a period: 
but though it may leave their meaning intelligible, yet it renders 
that meaning much less perspicuous, determined, and precise, 
than it might otherwise have been. The error I have pointed 
out, might have been avoided by a small alteration in the con- 
struction of the sentence, after some such manner as this : ' We 
no where meet with a more glorious and pleasing show in na- 
ture, than what is formed in the heavens at the rising and setting 
of the sun, by the different stains of light which show them- 
selves in clouds of different situations.' Our author writes, " in 
clouds of a different situation," by which he means, clouds that 
differ in situation from each other. But as this is neither the 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 279 

obvious nor grammatical meaning of his words, it was neces- 
sary to change the expression, as I have done, into the plural 
number. 

* For this reason, we find the poets, who are always address- 
ing themselves to the imagination, borrowing more of then 
epithets from colours than from any other topic." 

On this sentence nothing occurs, except a remark similar 
to what was made before, of loose connection with the sentence 
which precedes. For, though he begins with saying, " For this 
reason," the foregoing sentence, which was employed about the 
" clouds" and the " sun," gives no reason for the general pro- 
position he now lays down. The " reason" to which he refers, 
was given two sentences before, when he observed, that the eye 
takes more delight in colours than in any other beauty ; and it 
was with that sentence that the present one should have stood 
immediatdly connected. 

" As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, 
or beautiful, and is still more pleased, the more it finds of these 
perfections in the same object, so it is capable of receiving anew 
satisfaction by the assistance of another sense." 

"Another sense," here means, grammatically, 'another sense 
than fancy.' For there is no other thing in the period to which 
this expression " another sense," can at all be opposed. He 
had not for some time made mention of any " sense" whatever. 
He forgot to add, what was undoubtedly in his thoughts, ' ano- 
ther sense than that of sight.' 

* Thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall 
of water, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and 
makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the place 
which lie before him. Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells 
or perfumes, they heighten the pleasures of the imagination, and 
make even the colours and verdure of the landscape appear more 
agreeable : for the ideas of both senses recommend each other, 
and are pleasanter together, than when they enter the mind se- 
parately ; as the different colours of a picture, when they are 
well-disposed, set off one another, and receive an additional 
beauty from the advantage of their situation." 

Whether Mr. Addison's theory here be just or not, may be 
questioned. A continued sound, such as that of a fall of water 
is so far from " awakening every moment the mind of the 



280 LECTURE XXII. 

beholder,* that nothing is more likely to lull him asleep. It 
may, indeed, please the imagination, and heighten the beauties 
of the scene ; but it produces this effect, by a soothing, not by 
an awakening influence. With regard to the style, nothing ap- 
pears exceptionable. The flow, both of language and of ideas, 
is very agreeable. The author continues, to the end, the same 
pleasing train of thought, which had run through the rest of 
the paper ; and leaves us agreeably employed in comparing 
together different degrees of beauty 



LECTURE XXII. 



CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No. 413, OF THE 
SPECTATOR. 

" THOUGH in yesterday's paper we considered how every 
thing that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the ima- 
gination with pleasure, we must own, that it is impossible for 
us to assign the necessary cause of this pleasure, because we 
know neither the nature of an idea, nor the substance of a 
human soul, which might help us to discover the conformity or 
disagreeableness of the one to the other ; and, therefore, for 
want of such a light, all that we can do in speculations of this 
kind, is, to reflect on those operations of the soul that are most 
agreeable, and to range, under their proper heads, what is 
pleasing or displeasing to the mind, without being able to trace 
out the several necessary and efficient causes from whence the 
pleasure or displeasure arises." 

This sentence, considered as an introductory one, must be 
acknowledged to be very faulty. An introductory sentence 
should never contain any thing that can in any degree fatigue or 
puzzle the reader. When an author is entering on a new branch 
of his subject, informing us of what he has done, and what he 
purposes further to do, we naturally expect that he should ex- 
press himself in the simplest and most perspicuous manner 
possible. But the sentence now before us is crowded and in- 
distinct ; containing three separate propositions, which, as I 
shall afterwards show, required separate sentences to unfold 
them. Mr. Addison's chief excellence, as a wiiter, lay in de- 
scribing and painting. There he is great ; but in methodizing 
and reasoning, he is not so eminent. As beside"? the general 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 281 

fault of prolixity and indistinctness, this sentence contains se- 
veral inaccuracies, I shall be obliged to enter into a minute 
discussion of its structure and parts ; a discussion which to 
many readers will appear tedious, and which therefore they will 
naturally pass over ; but which, to those who are studying com- 
position, I hope may prove of some benefit. 

" Though in yesterday's paper we considered." — The import 
of " though" is ' notwithstanding that.' When it appears in the 
beginning of a sentence, its relative generally is ' yet :' and it is 
employed to warn us, after we have been informed of some truth, 
that we are not to infer from it some other thing which we might 
perhaps have expected to follow : as, ' Though virtue be the 
only road to happiness, yet it does not permit the unlimited gra- 
tification of our desires.' Now it is plain, that there was no such 
opposition between the subject of yesterday's paper, and what 
the author is now going to say, between his asserting a fact, and 
his not being able to assign the cause of that fact, as rendered 
the use of this adversative particle " though" either necessary or 
proper in the introduction. — " We considered how every thing 
that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination 
with pleasure." — The adverb " how" signifies, either the means 
by which, or the manner in which, something is done. But, in 
truth, neither one nor the other of these had been considered by 
our author. He had illustrated the fact alone, that they do af- 
fect the imagination with pleasure ; and, with respect to the 
quomodo, or the how, he is so far from having considered it, that 
he is just now going to show that it cannot be explained, and 
that we must rest contented with the knowledge of the fact alone, 
and of its purpose or final cause. — " We must own, that it is im- 
possible for us to assign the necessary cause" (he means, what 
is more commonly called the efficient came) " of this pleasure, 
because we know neither the nature of an idea, nor the substance 
of a human soul." — " The substance of a human soul" is certainly 
a very uncouth expression, and there appears no reason why he 
should have varied from the word " nature," which would have 
been equally applicable to " idea" and to " soul." 

" Which might help us," our author proceeds, " to discover 
the conformity or disagreeableness of the one to the other." — 
The " which," at the beginning of this member of the period, is 
surely ungrammatical, as it is a relative, without any antecedent 
in all the sentence. It refers, by the construction, to " the na- 
ture of an idea, or the substance of a human soul ;" but this is by 
no means the reference which the author intended. His meaning 



282 LECTURE XXII. 

is, that " our knowing" the nature of an idea, and the substance 
of a human soul, might help us to discover the conformity or disa. 
greeableness of the one to the other : and therefore the syntax 
absolutely required the word * knowledge" to have been inserted 
as the antecedent to " which." I have before remarked, and the 
remark deserves to be repeated, that nothing is a more certain 
sign of careless composition than to make such relatives as 
" which," not refer to any precise expression, but carry a loose 
and vague relation to the general strain of what had gone before. 
When our sentences run into this form, we may be assured there 
is something in the construction of them that requires alteration. 
The phrase of discovering " the conformity or disagreeableness 
of the one to the other" is likewise exceptionable ; for " disa- 
greeableness" neither forms a proper contrast to the other word 
" conformity," nor expresses what the author meant here (as far 
as any meaning can be gathered from his words,) that is, a cer- 
tain unsuitableness or want of conformity to the nature of the 
soul. To say the truth, this member of the sentence had much 
better have been omitted altogether. " The conformity or disa- 
greeableness of an idea to the substance of a human soul," is a 
phrase which conveys to the mind no distinct nor intelligible con- 
ception whatever. The author had before given a sufficient rea- 
son for his not assigning the efficient cause of those pleasures of 
the imagination, because we neither know the nature of our own 
ideas nor of the soul : and this further discussion about the con- 
formity or disagreeableness of the nature of the one, to the sub- 
stance of the other, affords no clear or useful illustration. 

" And therefore," the sentence goes on, " for want of such 
a light, all that we can do in speculations of this kind, is to 
reflect on those operations of the soul that are most agreeable, 
and to range under their proper heads what is pleasing or dis- 
pleasing to the mind." — The two expressions in the beginning 
of this member, " therefore," and " for want of such a light," 
evidently refer to the same thing, and are quite synonymous. 
One or other of them, therefore, had better have been omitted. 
Instead of " to range under their proper heads," the language 
would have been smoother, if " their" had been left out. 
"Without being able to trace out the several necessary and 
efficient causes from whence the pleasure or displeasure arises." 
The expression, " from whence," though seemingly justified by 
very frequent usage, is taxed by Dr. Johnson as a vicious 
mode of speech ; seeing " whence" alone has all the power of 
" from whence," which therefore appears an unnecessary redu- 



STrLE 1IM 8t*Bb A to It, No. 413. 283 

plication. I*am inclined to think, that the whole of this last 
member of the sentence had better have been dropped. The 
period might have closed with full propriety, at the word* 
" pleasing or displeasing to the mind." All that follows, sug- 
gests no idea that had not been fully conveyed in the preceding 
part of the sentence. It is a mere expletive adjection, which 
might be omitted, not only without injury to the meaning, but to 
the great relief of a sentence already labouring under the multi- 
tude of words. 

Having now finished the analysis of this long sentence, I 
am inclined to be of opinion, that if, on any occasion, we can 
adventure to alter Mr. Addison's style, it may be done to ad- 
vantage here, by breaking down this period in the following 
manner : " In yesterday's paper, we have shown that every thing 
which is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination 
with pleasure. We must own, that it is impossible for us to 
assign the efficient cause of this pleasure, because we know not 
the nature either of an idea, or of the human soul. All that we 
can do, therefore, in speculations of this kind, is to reflect on 
the operations of the soul which are most agreeable, and to 
range, under proper heads, what is pleasing or displeasing to 
the mind." — We proceed now to the examination of the following 
sentences. 

" Final causes lie more bare and open to our observation, 
as there are often a great variety that belong to the same effect ; 
and these, though they are not altogether so satisfactory, are 
generally more useful than the other, as they give us greater 
occasion of admiring the goodness and wisdom of the first 
contriver." 

Though some difference might be traced between the sense 
of " bare" and " open," yet as they are here employed, they are 
so nearly synonymous, that one of them was sufficient. It would 
have been enough to have said, ' Final causes lie more open to 
observation.' — One can scarcely help observing here, that the 
obviousness of final causes does not proceed, as Mr. Addison 
supposes, from a variety of them concurring in the same effect, 
which is often not the case ; but from our being able to ascertain 
more clearly, from our own experience, the congruity of a final 
cause with the circumstances of our condition ; whereas the con- 
stituent parts of subjects, whence efficient causes-proceed, lie 
for the most part beyond the reach of our faculties. But as this 
remark respects the thought more than the style, it is sufficient 



204 LECTURE XXII. 

• 

for us to observe, that when he says, a a great variety that be- 
long to the same effect," the expression, strictly considered, is 
not altogether proper. The accessory is properly said to belong 
to the principal ; not the principal to the accessory. Now an 
effect is considered as the accessory or consequence of its cause ; 
and therefore, though we might well say a variety of effects be- 
long to the same cause, it seems not so proper to say, that a 
variety of causes belong to the same effect. 

" One of the final causes of our delight in any thing that is 
great may be this : " The Supreme Author of our being has so 
formed the soul of man, that nothing but himself can be its last, 
adequate, and proper happiness. Because, therefore, a great 
part of our happiness must arise from the contemplation of his 
being, that he might give our souls a just relish of such a con- 
templation, he has made them naturally delight in the apprehen- 
sion of what is great or unlimited." 

The concurrence of two conjunctions, " because, therefore," 
forms rather a harsh and unpleasing beginning of the last of 
these sentences ; and, in the close, one would think, that the 
author might have devised a happier word than " apprehension," 
to be applied to what is " unlimited." But that I may not be 
thought hypercritical, I shall make no further observation on 
these sentences. 

" Our admiration, which is a very pleasing motion of the 
mind, immediately rises at the consideration of any object that 
takes up a good deal of room in the fancy, and, by consequence, 
will improve into the highest pitch of astonishment and devotion, 
when we contemplate his nature, that is neither circumscribed 
by time nor place, nor to be comprehended by the largest 
capacity of a created being." 

' Here, our author's style rises beautifully along with the 
thought. However inaccurate he may sometimes be when 
coolly philosophising, yet, whenever his fancy is awakened by 
description, or his mind, as here, warmed with some glowing 
sentiment, he presently becomes great, and discovers, in his 
language, the hand of a master. Every one must observe, with 
what felicity this period is constructed. The words are long 
and majestic. The members rise one above another, and con- 
duct the sentence, at last, to that full and harmonious close, 
which leaves upon the mind such an impression as the author 
intended to leave, of something uncommonly great, awful, and 
magnificent. 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 285 

" He has annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of any thing 
that is new or uncommon, that he might encourage us in the 
pursuit of knowledge, and engage us to search into the wonders 
of creation ; for every new idea brings such a pleasure along 
with it, as rewards the pains we have taken in its acquisition, 
and, consequently, serves as a motive to put us upon fresh 
discoveries." 

The language, in this sentence, is clear and precise ; only, 
we cannot but observe, in this, and the two following sentences, 
which are constructed in the same manner, a strong proof of 
Mr. Addison's unreasonable partiality to the particle, " that," in 
preference to " which" — " annexed a secret pleasure to the idea 
of any thing that is new or uncommon, that he might encourage 
us." — Here the first " that" stands for a relative pronoun, and 
the next " that," at the distance only of four words, is a conjunc- 
tion. This confusion of sounds serves to embarrass style. 
Much better, sure, to have said, ' the idea of any thing which is 
new or uncommon, that he might encourage.' — The expression 
with which the sentence concludes — h a motive to put us upon 
fresh discoveries" — is flat, and in some degree, improper. He 
should have said, ' put us upon making fresh discoveries' — 
or rather, ' serves as a motive inciting us to make fresh 
discoveries.' 

" He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own 
species, pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to multiply 
their kind, and fill the world with inhabitants ; for 'tis very re- 
markable, that wherever nature is crossed in the production of 
a monster (the result of any unnatural mixture,) the breed is in- 
capable of propagating its likeness, and of founding a new order 
of creatures ; so that unless all animals were allured by the 
beauty of their own species., generation would be at an end, and 
the earth unpeopled." 

Here we must, however reluctantly, return to fhe employ- 
ment of censure : for this is among the worst sentences our 
author ever wrote ; and contains a variety of blemishes. Taken 
as a whole, it is extremely deficient in unity. Instead of a com- 
plete proposition, it contains a sort of chain of reasoning, the 
links of which are so ill put together, that it is with difficulty we 
can trace the connexion; and, unless we take the trouble of 
perusing it several times, it will leave nothing on the mind but 
an indistinct and obscure impression. 

Besides this general fault respecting the meaning, it contains 



S8fi LECTURE XXII. 

some great inaccuracies in language. First, God's having made 
every thing which " is beautiful in our species" (that is, in the 
human species) " pleasant," is certainly no motive for " all crea- 
tures," for beasts, and birds, and fishes, K to multiply their 
kind." What the author meant to say, though he has expressed 
himself in so erroneous a manner, undoubtedly was, ' In all the 
different orders of creatures, he has made every thing which ia 
beautiful in their own species pleasant, that all creatures might 
be tempted to multiply their kind.' The second member of the 
sentence is still worse. " For, it is very remarkable, that wher- 
ever nature is crossed in the production of a monster," &c. 
The reason which he here gives for the preceding assertion, 
intimated by the casual particle " for," is far from being obvious. 
The connection of thought is not readily apparent, and would 
have required an intermediate step, to render it distinct. But, 
what does he mean, by " nature being crossed in the produc- 
tion of a monster?" One might understand him to mean, 
' disappointed in its intention of producing a monster ;' as when 
we say one is crossed in his pursuits, we mean, that he is disap- 
pointed in accomplishing the end which he intended. Had he 
said, ' crossed by the production of a monster,' the sense would 
have been more intelligible. But the proper rectification of the 
expression would be to insert the adverb " as," before the pre- 
position "in," after this manner — 'wherever nature is crossed, 
as in the production of a monster ;' — the insertion of this par- 
ticle " as," throws so much light on the construction of this 
member of the sentence, that I am very much inclined to believe 
it had stood thus, originally, in our author's manuscript ; and 
that the present reading is a typographical error, which having 
crept into the first edition of the Spectator, ran through all the 
subsequent ones. 

" In the last place, he has made every thing that is beautiful, 
in all other objects, pleasant, or rather has made so many ob- 
jects appear beautiful, that he might render the whole creation 
more gay and delightful. He has given almost every thing 
about us the power of raising an agreeable idea in the imagina- 
tion ; so that it is impossible for uy to behold his works with 
coldness or indifference, and to survey so many beauties without 
a secret satisfaction and complacency." 

The idea, here, is so just, and the language so clear, flowing, 
and agreeable, that to remark any diffuseness which may be 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 287 

attributed to these sentences, would be justly esteemed hyper- 
critical. 

" Things would make but a poor appearance to the eye, if we 
saw them only in their proper figures and motions : and what 
reason can we assign for their exciting in us many of those 
ideas which are different from any thing that exists in the ob 
jects themselves, (for such are light and colours,) were it not to 
add supernumerary ornaments to the universe, and make it more 
agreeable to the imagination ?" 

Our author is now entering on a theory, which he is about 
to illustrate, if not with much philosophical accuracy, yet, with 
great beauty of fancy, and glow of expression. A strong in- 
stance of his want of accuracy appears in the manner in which 
he opens the subject. For what meaning is there in tilings 
" exciting in us many of those ideas which are different from any 
thing that exists in the objects ?" No one, sure, ever imagined, 
that our ideas exist in the objects. Ideas, it is agreed on all 
hands, can exist no where but in the mind. What Mr. Locke's 
philosophy teaches, and what our author should have said, is, 
' exciting in us many ideas of qualities which are different from 
any thing that exists in the objects.' The ungraceful parenthesis 
which follows, " for such are light and colours," had far better 
have been avoided, and incorporated with the rest of the sen- 
tence, in this manner : — ' exciting in us many ideas of qualities* 
such as light and colours, which are different from any thing that 
exists in the objects.' 

" We are every where entertained with pleasing shows and 
apparitions. We discover imaginary glories in the heavens, 
and in the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured 
out upon the whole creation ; but what a rough unsightly sketch 
of nature should we be entertained with, did all her colouring 
disappear, and the several distinctions of light and shade van- 
ish ! In short, our souls are delightfully lost and bewildered in 
a pleasing delusion ; and we walk about like the enchanted hero 
of a romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods and meadows ; 
and, at the same time, hears the warbling of birds, and the purl- 
ing of streams ; but, upon the finishing of some secret spell, the 
fantastic scene breaks up, an4 the disconsolate knight finds 
himself on a barren heath, or in a solitary desert." _ 

After having been obliged to point out several inaccuracies I 



20B LECTURE XXII. 

return with much more pleasure to the display of beauties, 
for which we have now full scope ; for these two sentences are 
such as do the highest honour to Mr. Addison's talents as a 
writer. Warmed with the idea he had laid hold of, his delicate 
sensibility to the beauty of nature is finely displayed in the 
illustration of it. The style is flowing and full, without being 
too diffuse. It is flowery, but not gaudy; elevated, but not 
ostentatious. 

Amidst this blaze of beauties, it is necessary for us to 
remark one or two inaccuracies. When it is said, towards the 
close of the first of those sentences, " what a rough unsightly 
sketch of nature should we be entertained with," the preposition 
" with" should have been placed at the beginning, rather than 
at the end of this member ; and the word " entertained," is 
both improperly applied here, and carelessly repeated from the 
former part of the sentence. It was there employed according 
to its more common use, as relating to agreeable objects. " We 
are every where entertained with pleasing shows." Here, it 
would have been more proper to have changed the phrase, and 
said, ' with what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should we 
be presented,' — At the close of the second sentence, where it is 
said, K the fantastic scene breaks up," the expression is lively, 
but not altogether justifiable. An assembly " breaks up ;" a 
scene " closes" or " disappears." 

Excepting these two slight inaccuracies, the style here is 
not only correct, but perfectly elegant. The most striking 
beauty of the passage arises from the happy simile which the 
author employs, and the fine illustration which it gives to the 
thought. The " enchanted hero," the " beautiful castles," the 
" fantastic scene," the " secret spell," the " disconsolate knight," 
are terms chosen with the utmost felicity, and strongly recal 
all those romantic ideas with which he intended to amuse our 
imagination. Few authors are more successful in their imagery 
than Mr Addison ; and few passages in his works, or in those of 
any author, are more beautiful and picturesque, than that on 
which we have been commenting. 

K It is not improbable that something like this may be the 
state of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the 
images it will receive from matter ; though, indeed, the ideas of 
colours are so pleasing and beautiful in the imagination, that it 
is possible the soul will not be deprived of them, but, perhaps 
find them excited by some other occasional cause, as they are at 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 280 

present by the different impressions of the subtile matter on tlie 
organ of the sight." 

As all human things, after having attained the summit, 
begin to decline, we must acknowledge, that, in this sentence, 
there is a sensible falling off from the beauty of what went 
before. It is broken and deficient in unity. Its parts are not 
sufficiently compacted. It contains, besides, some faulty ex- 
pressions. When it is said, " something like this may be the 
state of the soul," to the pronoun " this" there is no determined 
antecedent; it refers to the general import of the preceding 
description, which, as I have several times remarked, always 
renders style clumsy and inelegant, if not obscure ; " the state 
of the soul after its first separation," appears to be an incomplete 
phrase, and "first" seems a useless, and even an improper, 
word. More distinct if he had said, " state of the soul imme- 
diately on its separation from the body." The adverb " per- 
haps" is redundant, after having just before said, " it is pos- 
sible." 

" I have here supposed that my reader is acquainted with 
that great modern discovery, which is at present universally 
acknowledged by all the inquirers into natural philosophy, 
namely, that light and colours, as apprehended by the imagina- 
tion, are only ideas in the mind, and not qualities that have any 
existence in matter. As this is a truth which has been proved 
incontestably by many modern philosophers, and, is, indeed, one 
of the finest speculations in that science, if the English reader 
would see the notion explained at large, he may find it in the 
eighth chapter of the second book of Mr. Locke's Essay on the 
Human Uunderstanding." 

In these two concluding sentences, the author, hastening to 
finish, appears to write rather carelessly. In the first of them, a 
manifest tautology occurs, when he speaks of what is " uni- 
versally acknowledged by all inquirers." In the second, when 
he calls " a truth which has been incontestably proved," first, 
a " speculation," and afterwards, a " notion," the language 
surely is not very accurate. When he adds, " one of the finest 
speculations in that science," it does not, at first, appear what 
science he means. One would imagine, he meant to refer to 
" modern philosophers ;" for « natural philosophy" (to which, 
doubtless, he refers) stands at much too great a distance to be 
the proper or obvious antecedent to the pronoun " thai" The 
circumstance towards the close, u if the English reader would 

U 



200 LEC1LKE XXlll. 

see the notion explained at large, he may find it," is properl y 
taken notice of by the author of the Elements of Criticism, as 
wrong arranged, and is rectified thus : u the English reader, if 
he would see the notion explained at large, may find it," &c. 

In concluding the examination of this paper, we may observe 
that, though not a very long one, it exhibits a striking view both 
of the beauties and the defects of Mr. Addison's style. It con- 
tains some of the best, and some of the worst sentences that are 
to be found in his works. But, upon the whole, it is an agreeable 
and elegant essay 



LECTURE XXIII. 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No. 414 OF 
THE SPECTATOR. 

" If we consider the works of nature and art, as they are 
qualified to entertain the imagination, we shall find the last 
very defective in comparison of the former ; for, though they 
may sometimes appear as beautiful or strange, they can have 
nothing in them of that vastness and immensity which afford so 
great an entertainment to the mind of the beholder." 

I had occasion formerly to observe, that an introductory sen- 
tence should always be short and simple, and contain no more 
matter than is necessary for opening the subject. This sentence 
leads to a repetition of this observation, as it contains both an 
assertion, and the proof of the assertion; two things, which, 
for the most part, but especially at first setting out, are with 
more advantage kept separate. It would certainly have been 
better, if this sentence had contained only the assertion, ending 
with the word " former ;" and if a new one had then begun, en- 
tering on the proofs of nature's superiority over art, which is the 
subject continued to the end of the paragraph. The proper di- 
vision of the period I shall point out, after having first made a 
few observations which occur on different parts of it. 

" If we consider the works." Perhaps it might have been pre- 
ferable, if our author had begun with saying, ' When we consider 
the works.' — Discourse ought always to begin, when it is possi- 
ble, with a clear proposition. The " if," which is here employed, 
converts the sentence into a supposition, which is always in some 
degree entangling, and proper to be used only when the course 
of reasoning renders it necessary. As this observation, how 






STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 414. 201 

ever, may perhaps be considered as over-refined, and as the sense 
would have remained the same in either form of expression, I do 
not mean to charge our author with any error on this account. 
We cannot absolve him from inaccuracy in what immediately 
follows ; " the works of nature and art." It is the scope of the 
author, throughout this whole paper, to compare nature and art 
together, and to oppose them in several views to each other. 
Certainly, therefore, in the beginning, he ought to have kept 
them as distinct as possible, by interposing the preposition, and 
saying, ' the works of nature and of art.' As the words stand 
at present, they would lead us to think that he is going to treat 
of these works, not as contrasted, but as connected ; as united 
in forming one whole. When I speak of body and soul as united 
in the human nature, I would interpose neither article nor prepo- 
sition between them ; ' man is compounded of soul and body.' 
But the case is altered, if I mean to distinguish them from each 
other ; then I represent them as separate, and say. 'lam to 
treat of the interests of the soul and of the body.' 

" Though they may sometimes appear as beautiful or 
strange." — I cannot help considering this as a loose member of 
the period. It does not clearly appear at first what the antece 
dent is to " they." In reading onwards, we see the works of 
art to be meant ; but from the structure of the sentence, u they" 
might be understood to refer to " the former," as well as to " the 
last." In what follows, there is a greater ambiguity — "may 
sometimes appear as beautiful or strange." It is very doubtful 
in what sense we are to understand " as," in this passage. For 
according as it is accented in reading, it may signify, that ' they 
appear equally beautiful or strange,' to wit, with the works of 
nature ; and then it has the force of the Latin tarn : or it may 
signify no more than that they " appear in the light of beautiful 
and strange ;" and then it has the force of the Latin tanquam 
without importing any comparison. An expression so ambigu- 
ous, is always faulty; and it is doubly so here ; because, if the 
author intended the former sense, and meant (as seems most 
probable) to employ " as" for a mark of comparison, it was ne- 
cessary to have mentioned both the compared objects ; whereas 
only one member of the comparison, is here mentioned, viz. the 
works of art ; and if he intended the latter sense, K as" was in 
that case superfluous and encumbering, and he had better have 
said simply, 'appear beautiful or strange.' — The epithet 
" strange," which Mr. Addison applies to the works of art, cannot 
be praised " Strange works" appears not by any means a happy 

u 2 



L£CTUR£ XX III. 

expression to signify what he here intends, which is ntw or 
uncommon. 

The sentence concludes with much harmony and dignity. — 
" they can have nothing in them of that vastness and immensity 
which afford so great an entertainment to the mind of the be- 
holder." There is here a fulness and grandeur of expression 
well suited to the subject ; though perhaps, " entertainment" 
is not quite the proper word for expressing the effect which vast- 
ness and immensity have upon the mind. Reviewing the obser- 
vations that have been made on this period, it might, I think, 
with advantage, be resolved into two sentences, somewhat after 
this manner : ' When we consider the works of nature and of art, 
as they are qualified to entertain the imagination, we shall find 
the latter very defective in comparison of the former. The 
works of art may sometimes appear no less beautiful or uncom- 
mon than those of nature ; but they can have nothing of that 
vastness and immensity which so highly transport the mind of 
the beholder.' 

" The one," proceeds our author in the next sentence, " may 
be as polite and delicate as the other ; but can never show her- 
self so august and magnificent in the design." 

The " one," and the " other," in the -first part of this sen- 
tence, must unquestionably refer to the " works of nature and of 
art." For of these he had been speaking immediately before ; 
and with reference to the pluraKword, " works," had employed 
the plural pronoun " they." But in the course of the sentence, 
he drops this construction ; and passes very incongruously to the 
personification of art — " can never show herself." — To render 
his style consistent, " art," and not " the works of art," should 
have been made the nominative in this sentence. — * Art may be 
as polite and delicate as nature, but can never show herself. — 
K Polite" is a term oftener applied to persons and to manners, 
than to things ; and is employed to signify their being highly 
civilized. Polished, or refined, was the idea which the author 
had in view. Though the general turn of this sentence be ele- 
gant, yet in order to render it perfect, I must observe, that the 
concluding words, " in the design" should either have been alto- 
gether omitted, or something should have been properly opposed 
to them in the preceding member of the period, thus : ' Art may, 
in the execution, be as polished and delicate as nature : but, 
in the design, can never show herself so august and mag- 
nificent.' 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 414. 298 

" There is something more bold and masterly in the rough, 
careless strokes of nature, than in the nice touches and embel- 
lishments of art." 

This sentence is perfectly happy and elegant ; and carries in 
all the expressions that curiosa felicitas, for which Mr. Addison 
is so often remarkable. " Bold and masterly" are words ap- 
plied with the utmost propriety. The " strokes of nature" are 
finely opposed to the " touches of art :" and the " rough strokes" 
to the " nice touches ;" the former painting the freedom and ease 
of nature, and the other, the diminutive exactness of art ; while 
both are introduced before us as different performers, and their 
respective merits in execution very justly contrasted with each 
other. 

" The beauties of the most stately garden or palace lie in a 
narrow compass, the imagination immediately runs them over, 
and requires something else to gratify her ; but in the wide fields 
of nature, the sight wanders up and down without confinement, 
and is fed with an infinite variety of images, without any certain 
stint or number." 

This sentence is not altogether so correct and elegant as the 
former. It carries, however, in the main, the character of our 
author's style ; not strictly accurate, but agreeable, easy, and 
unaffected : enlivened too with a slight personification of the 
imagination, which gives a gaiety to the period. Perhaps it 
had been better, if this personification of the imagination, with 
which the sentence is introduced, had been continued through- 
out, and not changed unnecessarily, and even improperly, into 
" sight," in the second member, which is contrary both to unity 
and elegance. It might have stood thus : " the imagination 
immediately runs them over, and requires something else to 
gratify her ; but in the wide fields of nature, she wanders up and 
down without confinement." The epithet " stately," which the 
author uses in the beginning of the sentence, is applicable, with 
more propriety, to " palaces" than to " gardens." The close o 
the sentence, " without any certain stint or number," may be 
objected to, as both superfluous and ungraceful. It might, per- 
haps, have terminated better in this manner : ' she is fed with an 
infinite variety of images, and wanders up and down without 
confinement.' 

" For this reason, we always find the poet in love with a 
country life, where nature appears in the greatest perfection, 



294 LECTURE XXIII. 

and furnishes out all those scenes that are most apt to delight 
the imagination." 

There is nothing in this sentence to attract particular atten- 
tion. One would think it was rather the " country" than a 
" country life," on which the remark here made should rest. 
A " country life" may be productive of simplicity of manners, 
and of other virtues ; but it is to " the country" itself, that the 
properties here mentioned belong, of displaying the beauties 
of nature, and furnishing those scenes which delight the imagi- 
nation. 

" But though there are several of these wild scenes that are 
more delightful than any artificial shows, yet we find the works 
of nature still more pleasant, the more they resemble those of 
art ; for in this case, our pleasure rises from a double principle ; 
from the agreeableness of the objects to the eye, and from their 
similitude to other objects : we are pleased, as well with com- 
paring their beauties, as with surveying them, and can represent 
them to our minds either as copies or as originals. Hence it is, 
that we take delight in a prospect which is well laid out, and 
diversified with fields and meadows, woods, and rivers ; in those 
accidental landscapes of trees, clouds, and cities, that are some- 
times found in the veins of marble, in the curious fretwork ol 
rocks and grottos ; and, in a word, in any thing that hath such 
a degree of variety and regularity as may seem the effect of de- 
sign in what we call the works of chance % " 

The style, in the two sentences which compose this para- 
graph, is smooth and perspicuous. It lies open, in some places, 
to criticism ; but lest the reader should be tired of what he may 
consider as petty remarks, I shall pass over any which these 
sentences suggest ; the rather too, as the idea which they present 
to us, of nature's resembling art, of art's being considered as an 
original, and nature as a copy, seems not very distinct nor 
well brought out, nor indeed very material to our author's 
purpose. 

" If the products of nature rise in value, according as they 
niore or less resemble those of art, we may be sure that artificial 
works receive a greater advantage from the resemblance of such 
as are natural ; because here the similitude is not only pleasant, 
but the pattern more perfect." 

It is necessary to our present design, to point out two con- 
siderable inaccuracies which occur in this sentence. " If tho 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 414. 206 

products" (he had better have said ' the productions') « of na- 
ture rise in value according as they more or less resemble those 
of art." — Does he mean, that these productions " rise in value," 
both according as they " more resemble," and as they " less re- 
semble," those of art ? His meaning, undoubtedly, is, that they 
rise in value only, according as they " more resemble them :" 
and therefore, either these words, " or less," must be struck 
out ; or the sentence must run thus — ' productions of nature rise 
or sink in value, according as they more or less resemble.' — The 
present construction of the sentence has plainly been owing to 
hasty and careless writing. 

The other inaccuracy is toward the end of the sentence, and 
serves to illustrate a rule which I formerly gave concerning the 
position of adverbs. The author says, — " because here, the 
similitude is not only pleasant, but the pattern more perfect." 
Here, by the position of the adverb " only," we are led to ima- 
gine that he is going to give some other property of the simili- 
tude, that it is " not only pleasant," as he says, but more than 
pleasant ; it is useful, or, on some account or other, valuable. 
Whereas, he is going to oppose another thing to the * similitude" 
itself, and not to this property of its being " pleasant ;" and 
therefore, the right collocation, beyond doubt, was, " because 
here, not only the similitude is pleasant, but the pattern more 
perfect ;" the contrast lying, not between " pleasant" and " more 
perfect," but between " similitude" and " pattern." — Much of 
the clearness and neatness of style depends on such attentions 
as these. 

" The prettiest landscape i ever saw, was one drawn on the 
walls of a dark room, which stood opposite, on one side, to a 
navigable river, and on the other, to a park. The experiment 
is very common in optics." 

In the description of the landscape which follows, Mr. Addi- 
son is abundantly happy ; but in this introduction to it, he is 
obscure and indistinct. One who had not seen the experiment 
of the camera obscura, could comprehend nothing of what he 
meant. And even after we understand what he points at, we 
are at some loss, whether to understand his description as of 
one continued landscape, or of two different ones, produced by 
the projection of two camera obscuras on opposite walls. The 
scene which I am inclined to think Mr. Addison here refers to, 
is Greenwich Park, with the prospects of the Thames, as seen 
by a camera obscura, which is placed in a small room in the 
upper story of the Observatory ; where I remember to have seen 



290 LECTURE X.XII1. 

many years ago, the whole scene here described, corresponding 
so much to Mr. Addison's account of it in this passage, that, at 
the time, it recalled it to my memory. As the Observatory stands 
in the middle of the Park, it overlooks, from one side, both the 
river and the Park ; and the objects afterwards mentioned, the 
ships, the trees, and the deer, are presented in one view, with- 
out needing any assistance from opposite walls. Put into plainer 
language, the sentence might run thus : ' The prettiest land- 
scape I ever saw, was one formed by a camera obscura, a com- 
mon optical instrument, on the wall of a dark room, which 
overlooked a navigable river and a park.' 

" Here you might discover the waves and fluctuations of the 
water in strong and proper colours, with the picture of a ship 
entering at one end, and sailing by degrees through the whole 
piece. On another, there appeared the green shadows of trees 
waving to and fro with the wind, and herds of deer among them 
in miniature, leaping about upon the wall." 

Bating one or two small inaccuracies, this is beautiful and 
lively painting. The principal inaccuracy lies in the connection 
of the two sentences, " here," and " on another." I suppose 
the author meant, on " one side" and " on another side." As 
it stands, " another" is ungrammatical, having nothing to which 
it refers. But the fluctuations of the water, the ship entering 
and sailing on by degrees, the trees waving in the wind, and the 
herds of deer among them leaping about, is all very elegant, 
and gives a beautiful conception of the scene meant to be des- 
cribed. 

" I must confess, the novelty of such a sight may be one oc- 
casion of its pleasantness to the imagination ; but certainly the 
chief reason is its near resemblance to nature ; as it does not 
only, like other pictures, give the colour and figure, but the mo- 
tions of the things it represents." 

In this sentence there is nothing remarkable, either to be 
praised or blamed. In the conclusion, instead of " the things 
it represents," the regularity of correct style requires " the things 
which it represents." In the beginning, as " one occasion" and 
the " chief reason" are opposed to one another, I should think 
it better to have repeated the same word — ' one reason of its 
pleasantness to the imagination, but certainly the chief reason 
is/ &c. 

" We have before observed, that there is generally, in nature 



STYLE IN SPECTATOR. No. 414. 297 

something more grand and august than what we meet with in the 
curiosities of art. When, therefore, we see this imitated in any 
measure, it gives us a nobler and more exalted kind of plea- 
sure, than what we receive from the nicer and more accurate 
productions of art. 

It would have been better. to have avoided terminating these 
two sentences in a manner so similar to each other ; " curiosities 
of art'' — " productions of art." 

" On this account, our English gardens are not so entertain- 
ing to the fancy as those in France and Italy, where we see a 
large extent of ground covered with an agreeable mixture of 
garden and forest, which represent every where an artificial 
rudeness, much more charming than that neatness and elegance 
which we meet with in those of our own country." 

The expression — " represent every where an artificial rude- 
ness," is so inaccurate, that I am inclined to think, what stood 
in Mr. Addison's manuscript must have been — ' present every 
where.' For the mixture of garden and forest does not K repre- 
sent," but actually ' exhibits' or ' presents,' artificial rudeness. 
That mixture " represents" indeed ' natural rudeness,' that is, is 
designed to imitate it ; but it in reality, ' is,' and ' presents/ " arti- 
ficial rudeness." 

" It might indeed be of ill consequence to the public, as well 
as unprofitable to private persons, to alienate so much ground 
from pasturage and the plough, in many parts of a country that 
is so well peopled and cultivated to a far greater advantage. But 
why may not a whole estate be thrown into a kind of garden 
by frequent plantations, that may turn as much to the profit as 
the pleasure of the owner ? A marsh overgrown with willows, 
or a mountain shaded with oaks, are not only more beautiful, but 
more beneficial, than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields 
of corn make a pleasant prospect ; and if the walks were a little 
taken care of that lie between them, and the natural embroidery 
of the meadows were helped and improved by some small addi- 
tions of art, and the several rows of hedges were set off by trees 
and flowers that the soil was capable of receiving, a man might 
make a pretty landscape of his own possessions." 

The ideas here are just, and the style is easy and perspicuous, 
though in some places bordering on the careless. In that pas- 
sage, for instance, " if the walks were a little taken care of that 
lie between them"— one member is clearly out of its place and 



298 LECTURE XX III. 

the turn of the phrase, " a little taken care of," is vulgar and 
colloquial. Much better if it had run thus — 'if a little care 
were bestowed on the walks that lie between them.' 

" Writers who have given us an account of China tell us, 
the inhabitants of that country laugh at the plantations of our 
Europeans, which are laid out by the rule and the line ; because, 
they say, any one may place trees in equal rows and uniform 
figures. They choose rather to show a genius in works of 
this nature, and therefore always conceal the art by which 
they direct themselves. They have a word, it seems, in their 
language, by which they express the particular beauty of a 
plantation, that thus strikes the imagination at first sight, 
without discovering what it is, has so agreeable an effect." 

These sentences furnish occasion for no remark, except, that 
in the last of them, a particular" is improperly used instead of 
u peculiar" — ' the peculiar beauty of a plantation that thus 
strikes the imagination,' was the phrase to have conveyed the 
idea which the author meant ; namely, the beauty which distin- 
guishes it from plantations of another kind. 

K Our British gardeners, on the contrary, instead of humour- 
ing nature, love to deviate from it as much as possible. Our 
trees rise in cones, globes, and pyramids. We see the marks 
of the scissars on every plant and bush." 

These sentences are lively and elegant. They make an 
agreeable diversity from the strain of those which went before ; 
and are marked with the hand of Mr. Addison. I have to 
remark only, that, in the phrase, " instead of humouring nature, 
love to deviate from it" — " humouring" and " deviating," are 
terms not properly opposed to each other; a sort of personifica- 
tion of nature is begun in the first of them which is not sup- 
ported in the second. — To " humouring," was to have been 
opposed " thwarting" — or if " deviating" was kept, " following" 
or " going along with nature," was to have been used. 

"I do not know whether I am singular in my opinion, 
but, for my own part, I would rather look upon a tree, in all its 
luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs and branches, than when it 
is thus cut and trimmed into a mathematical figure ; and cannot 
but fancy that an orchard, in flower, looks infinitely more 
delightful, than all the little labyrinths of the most finished 
parterre." 

This sentence is extremely harmonious, and every way 



STYLE OF DEAN SWIFT. 200 

beautiful. It carries all the characteristics of our author's 
natural, graceful, and flowing language. — A tree, " in all its 
luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs and branches," is a remark- 
ably happy expression. The author seems to become luxuriant 
in describing an object which is so, and thereby renders the 
sound a perfect echo to the sense. 

" But as our great modellers of gardens have their maga- 
zines of plants to dispose of, it is very natural in them, to tear 
up all the beautiful plantations of fruit trees, and contrive a 
plan that they may most turn to their profit, in taking off their 
evergreens, and the like moveable plants, with which their shops 
axe plentifully stocked." 

An author should always study to conclude, when it is in 
his power, with grace and dignity. It is somewhat unfortunate, 
that this paper did not end, as it might very well have done, 
with the former beautiful period. The impression left on the 
mind by the beauties of nature with which he had been enter- 
taining us, would then have been more agreeable. But in this 
sentence there is a great falling off; and we return with pain 
from those pleasing objects, to the insignificant contents of a 
nurseryman's shop. 



LECTURE XXIV. 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF 
DEAN SWIFT'S WRITINGS. 

My design, in the four preceding lectures, was not 
merely to appreciate the merit of Mr. Addison's style by point- 
ing out the faults and the beauties that are mingled in the writings 
of that great author. They were not composed with any viev 
to gain the reputation of a critic ; but intended for the assistant 
of such as are desirous of studying the most proper and elegant 
construction of sentences in the English language. To such, it 
is hoped, they may be of advantage ; as the proper application o» 
rules respecting style, will always be best learned by means 
of the illustration which examples afford. I conceived that ex- 
amples, taken from the writings of an author so justly esteemed, 
would on that account, not only be more attended to, but would 
also produce this good effect, of familiarising those who study 
composition with the style of a writer, from whom they may 



300 LECTURE XXIV. 

upon the whole, derive great benefit. With the same view, I 
shall, in this lecture, give one critical exercise more of the same 
kind, upon the style of an author of a different character, Dean 
Swift ; repeating the intimation I gave formerly, that such as 
stand in need of no assistance of this kind, and who, therefore, 
will naturally consider such minute discussions concerning the 
propriety of words, and structure of sentences, as beneath their 
atttention, had best pass over what will seem to them a tedious 
part of the work. 

I formerly gave the general character of Dean Swift's style. 
He is esteemed one of our most correct writers. His style is of 
the plain and simple kind ; free from all affectation, and all su- 
perfluity ; perspicuous, manly, and pure. These are its advan- 
tages. But we are not to look for much ornament and grace in 
it.* On the contrary, Dean Swift seems to have slighted and 
despised the ornaments of language, rather than to have stu- 
died them. His arrangement is often loose and negligent. In 
elegant, musical, and figurative language, he is much inferior to 
Mr. Addison. His manner of writing carries in it the charac- 
ter of one who rests altogether upon his sense, and aims at no 
more than giving his meaning in a clear and concise manner. 

That part of his writings, which I shall now examine, is the 
beginning of his treatise, entitled, " A Proposal for correcting, 
improving, and ascertaining the English Tongue," in a Letter 
addressed to the Earl of Oxford, then Lord High Treasurer. I 
was led, by the nature of this subject, to choose this treatise ; 
but, in justice to the Dean, I must observe that, after having ex- 
amined it, I do not esteem it one of his most correct produc- 
tions ; but am apt to think it has been more hastily composed 
than some other of them. It bears the title and form of a let- 
ter : but it is, however, in truth, a treatise designed for the pub- 
lic ; and therefore, in examining it, we cannot proceed upon the 
indulgence due to an epistolary correspondence. When a man 
addresses himself to a friend only, it is sufficient if he makes 
himself fully understood by him ; but when an author writes for 
the public, whether he employ the form of an epistle or not, 

• I am glad to find, that, in my judgment concerning this author's composi. 
tion, I have coincided with the opinion of a very able critic: " This easy and 
safe conveyance of meaning, it was Swift's desire to attain, and for having at- 
tained, he certainly deserves praise, though, perhaps, not the highest praise. 
For purposes merely didactic, when something is to be told that was not 
known before, it is in the highest degree proper; but against that inattention 
by which known truths are suffered to be neglected, it makes no provision ; 
it instructs, but does not persuade."— Johnson's Lives of the Poets : in 
Swift. 



STYLE OF DEAN SWIM. 301 

we are always entitled to expect, that he shall express himself 
with accuracy and care. Our author begins thus : 

" What I had the honour of mentioning to your lordship, 
some time ago, in conversation, was not a new thought, just 
then started by accident or occasion, but the result of long re- 
flection ; and I have been confirmed in my sentiments by the 
opinion of some very judicious persons with whom I consulted." 

The disposition of circumstances in a sentence, such as 
serve to limit or to qualify some assertion, or to denote time and 
place, I formerly shewed to be a matter of nicety ; and I ob- 
served, that it ought to be always held a rule, not to crowd such 
circumstances together, but rather to intermix them with more 
capital words, in such different parts of the sentence as can ad- 
mit them naturally. Here are two circumstances of this kind 
placed together, which had better have been separated. " Some 
time ago, in conversation" — better thus : ' What I had the 
honour some time ago, of mentioning to your lordship in con- 
versation' — " was not a new thought," proceeds our author, 
K started by accident or occasion :" the different meaning of 
these two words may not, at first occur. They have, however, 
a distinct meaning, and are properly used : for it is one very lau- 
dable property of our author's style, that it is seldom encumbered 
with superfluous, synonymous words. " Started by accident," 
is, fortuitously, or at random : started ' by occasion/ is, by some 
incident, which at that time gave birth to it. His meaning is, 
that it was not a new thought which either casually sprung up 
in his mind, or was suggested to him, for the first time, by the 
train of the discourse : but, as he adds, " was the result of long 
reflection." — He proceeds : 

" They all agreed, that nothing would be of greater use to- 
wards the improvement of knowledge and politeness, than some 
effectual method, for correcting, enlarging, and ascertaining our 
language ; and they think it a work very possible to be compas- 
sed under the protection of a prince, the countenance and en- 
couragement of a ministry, and the care of proper persons 
chosen for such an undertaking." 

This is an excellent sentence ; cleai-, and elegant. The words 
are all simple, well chosen, and expressive ; and arranged in the 
most proper order. It is a harmonious period too, which is a 
beauty not frequent in our author. The last part of it consists 
of three members, which gradually rise and swell one above 
another, without any affected or unsuitable pomp ; — " under 



302 LECTURE XXIV. 

the protection of a prince, the countenance and encouragement of 
a ministry, and the care of proper persons chosen for such an un- 
dertaking." We may remark, in the beginning of the sentence, 
the proper use of the preposition — " towards" — " greater use to 
wards the improvement of knowledge and politeness" — import- 
ing the pointing or tendency of any thing to a certain end ; which 
could not have been so well expressed by the preposition ' for,' 
commonly employed in place of ' towards,' by authors who are 
less attentive, than Dean Swift was, to the force of words. 

One fault might perhaps, be found, both with this and the 
former sentence, considered as introductory ones. We expect 
that an introduction is to unfold, clearly and directly, the subject 
that is to be treated of. In the first sentence, our author had 
told us of a thought he mentioned to his lordship, in conversa- 
sation, which had been the result of long reflection, and con- 
cerning which he had consulted judicious persons. But what 
that thought was, we are never told directly. We gather it in- 
deed from the second sentence, wherein he informs us, in what 
these judicious persons agreed ; namely, that some method for 
improving the language was both useful and practicable. But 
this indirect method of opening the subject, would have been 
very faulty in a regular treatise ; though the ease of the episto- 
lary form, which our author here assumes in addressing his pa- 
tron, may excuse it in the present case. 

" I was glad to find your lordship's answer in so different a 
style from what hath commonly been made use of, on the like 
occasions, for some years past ; ' that all such thoughts must be 
deferred to a time of peace ;' a topic which some have carried 
so far, that they would not have us, by any means, think of pre- 
serving our civil and religious constitution, because we are en- 
gaged in a war abroad." 

This sentence also is clear and elegant ; only there is one 
inaccuracy when he speaks of his lordship's " answer" being in 
so different a style from what had formerly been used. His an- 
swer to what? or to whom ? For, from any thing going before, 
it does not appear that any application or address had been made 
to his lordship by those persons, whose opinion was mentioned 
in the preceding sentence ; and to whom the answer, here spo- 
ken of, naturally refers. There is a little indistinctness as I 
before observed, in our author's manner of introducing his sub- 
ject here. — We may observe too, that the phrase, " glad to find 
your answer in so different a style," though abundantly suited 



STYLE OF DEAN SWIFT. 303 

to the language of conversation, or of a familiar letter, yet in re- 
gular composition, requires an additional word ; ' glad to find 
your answer run in so different a style.' 

" It will be among the distinguishing marks of your min- 
istry, my lord, that' you have a genius above all such regards, and 
that no reasonable proposal, for the honour, the advantage, or 
ornament of your country, however foreign to your immediate 
office, was ever neglected by you." 

The phrase, " a genius above all such regards," both seems 
someAvhat harsh, and does not clearly express what the author 
means, namely, the " confined views" of those who neglected 
every thing that belonged to the arts of peace in the time of 
war. — Except this expression, there is nothing that can be sub- 
ject to the least reprehension in this sentence, nor in all that 
follows, to the end of the paragraph. 

« I confess the merit of this candour and condescension is 
very much lessened, because your lordship hardly leaves us room 
to offer our good wishes ; removing all our difficulties, and sup- 
plying our wants, faster than the most visionary projector can 
adjust his schemes. And therefore, my lord, tiie design of this 
paper is not so much to offer you ways and means, as to complain 
of a grievance, the redressing of which is to be your own work, 
as much as that of paying the nation's debts, or opening a trade 
into the South Sea ; and though not of such immediate benefit 
as either of these, or any other of your glorious actions, yet, 
perhaps, in future ages not less to your honour." 

The compliments which the dean here pays to his patron are 
very high and strained ; and show that, with all his surliness, 
he was as capable, on some occasions, of making his court 
to a great man by flattery, as other writers. However, with 
respect to the style, which is the sole object of our present con- 
sideration, every thing here, as far as appears to me, is faultless, 
In these sentences, and, indeed throughout this paragraph, in 
general, which we have now ended, our author's style appears to 
great advantage. We see that ease and simplicity, that cor- 
rectness and distinctness, which particularly characterise it. 
It is very remarkable how few Latinized words Dean Swift em- 
ploys. No, writer, in our language, is so purely English as he 
<s, or borrows so little assistance from words of foreign deriva- 
tion. From none can we take a better model of the choice and 
proper significancy of words. It is remarkable, in the sentences 



804 LECTURE XXIV. 

we have now before us, how plain all the expressions are, 
and yet, at the same time, how significant ; and, in the midst of 
that high strain of compliment into which he rises, how little 
there is of pomp, or glare of expression. How very few wri- 
ters can preserve this manly temperance of style ; or would 
think a compliment of this nature supported with sufficient dig- 
nity, unless they had embellished it with some of those high- 
sounding words, whose chief effect is no other than to give their 
language a stiff and forced appearance ! 

" My lord, I do here, in the name of all the learned and 
polite persons of the nation, complain to your lordship, as first 
minister, that our language is extremely imperfect ; that its daily 
improvements are by no means in proportion to its daily corrup- 
tions ; that the pretenders to polish and refine it, have chiefly 
multiplied abuses and absurdities ; and that, in many instances, 
it offends against every part of grammar." 

The turn of this sentence is extremely elegant. He had 
spoken before of a grievance for which he sought redress, and 
he carries on the allusion, by entering, here, directly on his 
subject, in the style of a public representation presented to the 
minister of state. One imperfection, however, there is in this 
sentence, which, luckily for our purpose, serves to illustrate a 
rule before given, concerning the position of adverbs, so as to 
avoid ambiguity. It is in the middle of the sentence ; " that the 
pretenders to polish and refine it, have chiefly multiplied abuses 
and absurdities." — Now, concerning the import of this adverb, 
" chiefly," I ask, whether it signifies that these pretenders to 
polish the language have been the ' chief persons' who have 
multiplied its abuses, in distinction from others ; or that t\\r 
' chief thing' which these pretenders have done, is to multiply 
the abuses of our language, in opposition to their doing any 
thing to refine it?' These two meanings are really different; 
and yet, by the position which the word "■ chiefly" has in the 
sentence, we are left at a loss in which to understand it. The 
construction would lead us rather to the latter sense, that the 
chief thing which tiles'; pretenders have done, is to multiply the 
abuses of our language. But it is more than probable, that th 
former sense was what the dean intended, as it carries more 01 
his usual satirical edge ; ' that the pretended refiners of our lan_ 
guage were, in fact, its chief corrupters ;' on which supposition, 
his words ought to have run thus : ' that the pretenders to 
polish and refine it, have been the chief persons to multiply its 



STYLE OF DEAN SWIFT. 805 

abuses and absurdities ;' which would have rendered the sense 
perfectly clear. 

Perhaps, too, there might be ground for observing further 
upon this sentence, that as language is the object with which it 
sets out ; " that our language is extremely imperfect ;" and, as 
there follows an enumeration concerning language, in three par- 
ticulars, it had been better if language had been kept the ruling 
word, or the nominative to every verb, without changing the 
construction ; by making " pretenders" the ruling word, as is 
done in the second member of the enumeration, and then, in the 
third, returning again to the former word, " language — that the 
pretenders to polish — and that, in many instances, it offends," — 
I am persuaded, that the structure of the sentence would have 
been more neat and happy, and its unity more complete, if the 
members of it had been arranged thus : ' That our language is 
extremely imperfect ; that its daily improvements are by no 
means in proportion to its daily corruptions ; that, in many 
instances, it offends against every part of grammar ; and that 
the pretenders to polish and refine it, have been the chief per- 
sons to multiply its abuses and absurdities.' This degree of at- 
tention seemed proper to be bestowed on such a sentence as this, 
in order to show how it might have been conducted after the 
most perfect manner. Our author, after having said, 

" Lest your lordship should think my censure too severe, I 
shall take leave to be more particular ;" proceeds in the follow- 
ing paragraph : 

" I believe your lordship will agree with me, in the reason 
why our language is less refined than those of Italy, Spain, or 
France." 

I am sorry to say, that now We shall have less to commend 
in our author. For the whole of this paragraph, on which we 
are entering, is, in truth, perplexed and inaccurate. Even in 
this short sentence we may discern an inaccuracy ; " why our 
language is less refined than those of Italy, Spain, or France ; " 
putting the pronoun " those" in the plural, when the ante- 
cedent substantive to which it refers is in the singular, " our 
language." Instances of this kind may sometimes be found in 
English authors ; but they sound harsh to the ear, and are 
certainly contrary to the purity of grammar. By a very little 
attention, this inaccuracy might have been remedied, and the 
sentence have been made to run much better in this way: 

x 



300 LECTURE XXIV. 

* why our language is less refined than the Italian, Spanish, or 
French.' 

u It is plain, that the Latin tongue, in its purity, was never 
in this island ; towards the conquest of which, few or no at- 
tempts were made till the time of Claudius ; neither was that 
language ever so vulgar in Britain, as it is known to have been 
in Gaul and Spain." 

To say, that * the Latin tongue, in its purity, was never in 
this island," is very careless style ; it ought to have been, * was 
never spoken in this island.' In the progress of the sentence, 
he means to give a reason why the Latin was never spoken in 
its purity amongst us, because our island was not conquered by 
the Romans till after the purity of their tongue began to decline. 
But this reason ought to have been brought out more clearly. 
This might easily have been done, and the relation of the several 
parts of the sentence to each other much better pointed out by 
means of a small variation ; thus : ' It is plain, that the Latin 
tongue, in its purity, was never spoken in this island, as few or 
no attempts towards the conquest of it were made till the time 
of Claudius.' He adds, u neither was that language ever so vul- 
gar in Britain." — " Vulgar" was one of the worst words he could 
have chosen for expressing what he means here ; namely, that 
the Latin tongue was at no time so ' general' or so much in 
'common use,' in Britain, as it is known to have been in Gaul 
and Spain. — "Vulgar," when applied to language, commonly 
signifies impure, or debased language, such as is spoken by the 
low people, which is quite opposite to the author's sense here j 
for, instead of meaning to say, that the Latin spoken in Britain 
was not so debased as what was spoken in Gaul and Spain, he 
means just the contrary, and had been telling us, that we never 
were acquainted with the Latin at all, till its purity began to be 
corrupted. 

" Further, we find that the Roman legions here were at 
length all recalled to help their country against the Goths, and 
other barbarous invaders." 

The chief scope of this sentence is, to give a reason why the 
Latin tongue did not strike any deep root in this island, on ac- 
count of the short continuance of the Romans in it. He goes on : 

" Meantime the Britons, left to shift for themselves, and 
daily harassed by cruel inroads from the Picts, were forced to 
call in the Saxons for their defence ; who, consequently, reduced 



STYLE OF DEAN SWIFT. 307 

the greatest part of the island to their own power, drove the 
Britons into the most remote and mountainous parts, and the 
rest of the country, in customs, religion, and language, became 
wholly Saxon." 

This is a very exceptionable sentence. First, the phrase, 
"left to shift for themselves," is rather a low phrase, and too 
much in the familiar style to be proper in a grave treatise. 
Next, as the sentence advances — " forced to call in the Saxons for 
their defence, who, consequently, reduced the greatest part o f 
the island to their own power. "— What is the meaning of " con- 
sequently" here ? If it means ' afterwards,' or ' in progress of 
time,' this, certainly, is not a sense in which " consequently" is 
often taken ; and therefore the expression is chargeable with 
obscurity. The adverb, " consequently," in its most common 
acceptation, denotes one thing following from another, as an 
effect from a cause. If he uses it in this sense, and means that 
the Britons being subdued by the Saxons, was a necessary con- 
sequence of their having called in these Saxons to their assist- 
ance, this consequence is drawn too abruptly, and needed more 
explanation. For though it has often happened, that nations 
have been subdued by their own auxiliaries, yet this is not a con- 
sequence of such a nature that it can be assumed, as it seems 
here to be done, for a first and self-evident principle. — But fur- 
ther, what shall we say to this phrase, K reduced the greatest 
part of the island to their own power ?" We say, ' reduce to 
rule, reduce to practice*— we can say, that ' one nation reduces 
another to subjection.' — But when ' dominion' or ' power' is 
used, we always, as far as I know, say, ' reduce under their 
power.' — " Reduce to their power," is so harsh and uncommon 
an expression, that though Dean Swift's authority in language 
be very great, yet, in the use of this phrase, I am of opinion 
that it would not be safe to follow his example. 

Besides these particular inaccuracies, this sentence is charg* 
able with want of unity in the composition of the whole. The 
persons and the scene are too often changed upon us — First, the 
Britons are mentioned, who are harassed by inroads from the 
Picts ; next, the Saxons appear, who subdue the greatest part 
of the island, and drive the Britons into the mountains ; and, 
lastly, the rest of the country is introduced, and a description 
given of the change made upon it. All this forms a group of 
various objects, presented in such quick succession, that the mind 
finds it difficult to comprehend them under one view. Accord- 

x 2 



308 LECTURE XXIV. 

ingly it is quoted in the Elements of Criticism, as an instance of 
a sentence rendered faulty by the breach of unity. 

" This I take to be the reason why there are more Latin 
words remaining in the British than the old Saxon : which ex- 
cepting some few variations in the orthography, is the same in 
most original words with our present English, as well as with 
the German and other northern dialects." 

This sentence is faulty, somewhat in the same manner with 
the last. It is loose in the connection of its parts ; and, besides 
this, it is also too loosely connected with the preceding sentence 
What he had there said, concerning the Saxons expelling the 
Britons, and changing the customs, the religion, and the lan- 
guage of the country, is a clear and good reason for our present 
language being Saxon rather than British. This is the inference 
which we would naturally expect him to draw from the premises 
just before laid down : but when he tells us, that " this is the reason 
why there are more Latin words remaining in the Britith tongue 
than in the old Saxon," we are presently at a stand. No reason 
for this inference appears. If it can be gathered at all from the 
foregoing deduction, it is gathered only imperfectly. For as he 
had told us that the Britons had " some" connection with the 
Romans, he should have also told us, in order to make out his in- 
ference, that the Saxons never had ' any.' The truth is, the whole 
of this paragraph, concerning the influence of the Latin tongue 
upon ours, is careless, perplexed, and obscure. His argument 
required to have been more fully unfolded, in order to make it 
be distinctly apprehended, and to give it its due force. In the 
next paragraph he proceeds to discourse concerning the influence 
of the French tongue upon our language. The style becomes 
nore clear, though not remarkable for great beauty or elegance. 

" Edward the Confessor, having lived long in France, ap- 
pears to be the first who introduced any mixture of the French 
tongue with the Saxon ; the court affecting what the prince was 
fond of, and others taking it up for a fashion, as it is now with 
as. William the Conqueror proceeded much farther, bringing 
over with him vast numbers of that nation, scattered them in 
every monastery, giving them great quantities of land, directing 
all pleadings to be in that language, and endeavouring to make 
)t universal in the kingdom." 

On these two sentences, I have nothing of moment to ob- 






STYLE OF DF.AN SWIFT. 300 

serve. The sense is brought out clearly, and in simple, unaf- 
fected language. 

" This, at least, is the opinion generally received : but your 
lordship hath fully convinced me, that the French tongue made 
yet a greater progress here under Harry the Second, who had 
large territories on that continent both from his father and 
his wife ; made frequent journeys and expeditions thither ; and 
was always attended with a number of his countrymen, retain- 
ers at court." 

In the beginning of this sentence, our author states an op- 
position between an opinion generally received, and that of his 
lordship ; and in compliment to his patron, he tells us, that 
his lordship had convinced him of somewhat that differed from 
the general opinion. Thus one must naturally understand his 
words : K This, at least, is the opinion generally received ; 
but your lordship hath fully convinced me" — Now here there 
must be an inaccuracy of expression. For, on examining what 
went before, there appears no sort of opposition betwixt the gen- 
erally received opinion, and that of the author's patron. The 
general opinion was, that William the Conqueror had proceeded 
much farther than Edward the Confessor, in propagating the 
French language, and had endeavoured to make it universal. 
Lord Oxford's opinion was, that the French tongue had gone on 
to make a yet greater progress under Harry the Second, than 
it had done under his predecessor William : which two opinions 
are as entirely consistent with each other as any can be ; and there- 
fore the opposition here affected to be stated between them, by 
the adversative particle " but," was improper and groundless. 

" For some centuries after, there was a constant intercourse 
between France and England by the dominions we possessed 
there, and the conquests we made ; so that our language, be- 
tween two and three hundred years ago, seems to have had a 
greater mixture with French than at present ; many words hav- 
ing been afterwards rejected, and some since the days of Spen- 
ser ; although we have still retained not a few, which have been 
long antiquated in France." 

This is a sentence too long and intricate, and liable to the 
same objection that was made to a former one, of the want of 
unity. It consists of four members, each divided from the sub- 
sequent by a semicolon. In going along, we naturally expect 
the sentence is to end at the second of these, or, at farthest, at 



310 LECTURE XXIV. 

the third ; when, to our surprise, a new member of the period 
makes its appearance, and fatigues our attention in joining all 
the parts together. Such a structure of a sentence is always the 
mark of careless writing. In the first member of the sentence, 
" a constant intercourse between France and England, by the do- 
minions we possessed there, and the conquests we made," the 
construction is not sufficiently filled up. In place of * intercourse 
by the dominions we possessed," it should have been — ' by rea- 
son of the dominions we possessed' — or — ' occasioned by the do- 
minions we possessed' — and in place of — "the dominions we 
possessed there, and the conquests we made," the regular style 
is — ' the dominions which we possessed there, and the conquests 
which we made.' — The relative pronoun 'which' is indeed, in 
phrases of this kind sometimes omitted : but, when it is omitted, 
the style becomes elliptic ; and though in conversation, or in the 
very light and easy kinds of writing, such elliptic style may not 
be improper, yet in grave and regular writing, it is better to fill 
up the construction, and insert the relative pronoun. — After hav- 
ing said — " I could produce several instances of both kinds, if it 
were of any use or entertainment" — our author begins the next 
paragraph thus : 

"To examine into the several circumstances by which the 
language of a country may be altered, would force me to enter 
into a wide field." 

There is nothing remarkable in this sentence, unless that 
here occurs the first instance of a metaphor since the beginning 
of this treatise ; " entering into a wide field," being put for 
beginning an extensive subject. Few writers deal less in figura- 
tive language than Swift. I before observed, that he appears to 
despise ornaments of this kind: and though this renders his style 
somewhat dry on serious subjects, yet his plainness and simpli- 
city, I must not forbear to remind my readers, is far preferable 
to an ostentatious and affected parade of ornament. 

" I shall only observe, that the Latin, the French, and the 
English, seem to have undergone the same fortune. The first, 
from the days of Romulus to those of Julius Cgesar, suffered 
perpetual changes ; and by what we meet in those authors who 
occasionally speak on that subject, as well as from certain frag- 
ments of old laws, it is manifest, that the Latin, three hundred 
years before Tully, was as unintelligible in his time, as the French 
and English of the same period are now ; and these two have 



STYLE OF DEAN SWIFT. 31 1 

changed as much since William the Conqueror (which is but lit- 
tle less than seven hundred years,) as the Latin appears to have 
done in the like term." 

The dean plainly appears to be writing negligently here. 
This sentence is one of that involved and intricate kind, of which 
some instances have occurred before ; but none worse than this. 
It requires a very distinct head to comprehend the whole mean- 
ing of the period at first reading. In one part of it we find 
extreme carelessness of expression. He says, " it is manifest 
that the Latin, three hundred years before Tully, was as unintel- 
ligible in his time, as the English and French of the same period 
are now." By the English and French " of the same period," 
must naturally be understood, 'the English and French that 
were spoken three hundred years before Tully.' This is the 
only grammatical meaning his words will bear ; and yet as- 
suredly what he means, and what it would have been easy for 
him to have expressed with more precision is, ' the English and 
French that were spoken three hundred years ago ;' or at a pe- 
riod equally distant from our age, as the old Latin, which he had 
mentioned, was from the age of Tully. But when an author 
writes hastily, and does not review with proper care what he has 
written, many such inaccuracies will be apt to creep into his 
style. 

" Whether our language or the French will decline as fast 
as the Boman did, is a question that would perhaps admit more 
debate than it is worth. There were many reasons for the cor- 
ruptions of the last ; as the change of their government to a 
tyranny, which ruined the study of eloquence, there being no 
further use or encouragement for popular orators ; their giving 
not only the freedom of the city, but capacity for employments, 
to several towns in Gaul, Spain, and Germany, and other distant 
parts, as far as Asia, which brought a great number of foreign 
pretenders to Borne ; the slavish disposition of the senate and 
people, by which the wit and eloquence of the age were wholly 
turned into panegyric, the most barren of all subjects ; the great 
corruption of manners, and introduction of foreign luxury, with 
foreign terms to express it, with several others that might be as- 
signed ; not to mention the invasions from the Goths and Vandals, 
which are too obvious to insist on." 

In the enumeration here made of the causes contributing to- 
wards the corruption of the Boman language, there are many 



»12 LECTURE XXIV. 

inaccuracies — u the change of their government to a tyranny" — 
Of whose government? He had indeed been speaking of the 
Roman language, and therefore we guess at his meaning ; but 
the style is ungrammatical ; for he had not mentioned the Ro- 
mans themselves ; and therefore, when he says " their govern- 
ment," there is no antecedent in the sentence to which the pro- 
noun, " their," can refer with any propriety. — " Giving the 
capacity for employments to several towns in Gaul," is a ques- 
tionable expression. For though towns are sometimes put for 
the people who inhabit them, yet to give a town " the capacity 
for employments" sounds harsh and uncouth. " The wit and 
eloquence of the age wholly turned into panegyric," is a phrase 
which does not well express the meaning. Neither wit nor elo- 
quence can be turned into panegyric ; but they may be turned 
" towards panegyric," or " employed in panegyric," which was 
the sense the author had in view. 

The conclusion of the enumeration is visibly incorrect — 
" The great corruption of manners, and introduction of foreign 
luxury, with foreign terms to express it, with several others that 
might be assigned" — He means, 'with several other reasons/ 
The word " reasons," had indeed been mentioned before ; but as 
it stands at the distance of thirteen lines backward, the repetition 
of it here became indispensable, in order to avoid ambiguity. 
" Not to mention," he adds, " the invasions from the Goths and 
Vandals, which are too obvious to insist on." One would imagine 
him to mean, that the invasions from the Goths and Vandals are 
' historical facts' too well known and obvious to be insisted 
on. But he means quite a different thing, though he has not 
taken the proper method of expressing it, through his haste pro- 
bably, to finish the paragraph : namely, that these invasions from 
the Goths and Vandals " were causes of the corruption of the 
Roman language too obvious to be insisted on." 

I shall not pursue this criticism any further. I have been 
obliged to point out many inaccuracies in the passage which we 
have considered, But, in order that my observations may not 
be construed as meant to depreciate the style or the writings of 
Dean Swift below their just value, there are two remarks, which 
I judge it necessary to make before concluding this lecture. 
One is, that it were unfair to estimate an author's style on the 
whole, by some passage in his writings, which chances to be 
composed in a careless manner. This is the case with respect 
to this treatise, which has much the appearance of a hasty pro- 
duction ; though, as I before observed it was by no means on 



STYLE OF DEAN SWIFT. 313 

that account that I pitched upon it for the subject of this exer- 
cise. But after having examined it, I am sensible that, in many 
other of his writings, the dean is more accurate. 

My other observation, which is equally applicable to Dean 
Swift and Mr. Addison, is, that there may be writers much freer 
from such inaccuracies, as I have had occasion to point out in 
these two, whose style, however, upon the whole, may not have 
half their merit. Refinement in language has, of late years, 
begun to be much attended to. In several modern productions 
of very small value, I should find it difficult to point out many 
errors in language. The words might probably, be all proper 
words, correctly and clearly arranged, and the turn of the sen- 
tence sonorous and musical ; whilst yet the style, upon the whole, 
might deserve no praise. The fault often lies in what may be 
called the general cast or complexion of the style ; which a per- 
son of good taste discerns to be vicious ; to be feeble, for instance, 
and diffuse ; flimsy or affected ; petulant or ostentatious ; 
though the faults cannot be so easily pointed out and particular- 
ized, as when they lie in some erroneous or negligent construction 
of a sentence. Whereas, such writers as Addison and Swift 
carry always those general characters of good style, which, in 
the midst of their occasional negligences, every person of good 
taste must descern and approve. We see their faults over- 
balanced by higher beauties. We see a writer of sense and 
reflection expressing his sentiments without affectation ; atten- 
tive to thoughts as well as to words ; and, in the main current 
of his language, elegant and beautiful ; and therefore, the only 
proper use to be made of the blemishes which occur in the writ- 
ings of such authors, is to point out to those who apply themselves 
to the study of composition, some of the rules which they ought 
to observe for avoiding such errors ; and to render them sensible 
of the necessity of strict attention to language and to style. Let 
them imitate the ease and simplicity of those great authors ; let 
them study to be always natural, and as far as they can, always 
correct in their expressions ; let them endeavour to be, at some 
times, lively and striking ; but carefully avoid being at any time 
ostentatious and affected. 



J 



314 



LECTURE XXV. 

ELOQUENCE, OR PUBLIC SPEAKING.— HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE. 
—GRECIAN ELOQUENCE.— DEMOSTHENES. 

HAVING finished that part of the course which relates to 
language and style, we are now to ascend a step higher, and to 
examine the subjects upon which style is employed. I begin 
with what is properly called eloquence, or public speaking. In 
treating of this, I am to consider the different kinds and subjects 
of public speaking ; the manner suited to each ; the proper dis- 
tribution and management of all the parts of a discourse ; and 
the proper pronunciation or delivery of it. But before I enter 
on any of these heads, it may be proper to take a view of the 
nature of eloquence in general, and of the state in which it has 
subsisted in different ages and countries. This will lead into 
some detail ; but I hope a useful one ; as in every art it is of 
great consequence to have a just idea of the perfection of that 
art, of the end at which it aims, and of the progress which it has 
made among mankind. 

Of eloquence, in particular, it is the more necessary to as- 
certain the proper notion, because there is not any thing con- 
cerning which false notions have been more prevalent. Hence, 
it has been so often, and is still at this day in disrepute with 
many. When you speak to a plain man of eloquence, or in 
praise of it, he is apt to hear you with very little attention. He 
conceives eloquence to signify a certain trick of speech ; the art 
of varnishing weak arguments plausibly ; or of speaking so as 
to please and tickle the ear. " Give me good sense," says he, 
" and keep your eloquence for boys." He is in the right, if 
eloquence were what he conceives it to be. It would be then a 
very contemptible art indeed, below the study of any wise or 
good man. But nothing can be more remote from truth. / To 
be truly eloquent, is to speak to the purpose, i For the best 
definition which, I think, can be given of eloquence, is the art of 
speaking in such a manner as to attain the end for which we 
speak. Whenever a man speaks or writes, he is supposed, as 
a rational being, to have some end in view ; either to inform, or 
to amuse, or to persuade, or, in some way or other, to act upon 
his fellow-creatures. He who speaks, or writes, in such a man- 
ner as to adapt all his words most effectually to that end, is the 
most eloquent man. Whatever then the subject be, there is 
room for eloquence ; in history, or even in philosophy, as well 



ELOQUENCE, OF PUBLIC SPEAKING. 315 

as in orations. The definition which I have given of eloquence, 
comprehends all the different kinds of it ; whether calculated to 
instruct, to persuade, or to please. But, as the most important 
subject of discourse is action, or conduct, the power of elo- 
quence chiefly appears when it is employed to influence con- 
duct, and persuade to action. As it is principally with reference 
to this end, that it becomes the object of art, eloquence may, 
under this view of it, be defined, the Art of Persuasion. 

This being once established, certain consequences imme- 
diately follow, which point out the fundamental maxims of the 
art. It follows clearly, that, in order to persuade, the most es- 
sential requisites are, solid argument, clear method, a character 
of probity appearing in the speaker, joined with such graces of 
style and utterance, as shall draw our attention to what he says. 
Good sense is the foundation of all. No man can be truly elo- 
quent without it ; for fools can persuade none but fools. In 
order to persuade a man of sense, you must first convince him ; 
which is only to be done, by satisfying his understanding of the 
reasonableness of what you propose to him. 

This leads me to observe, that convincing and persuading, 
though they are sometimes confounded, import, notwithstanding, 
different things, which it is necessary for us, at present, to dis- 
tinguish from each other. Conviction affects the understanding 
only ; persuasion, the will and the practice. It is the business 
of the philosopher to convince me of truth ; it is the business of 
the orator to persuade me to act agreeably to it, by engaging 
my affections on its side. Conviction and persuasion do not 
always go together. They ought, indeed, to go together ; and 
would do so, if our inclination regularly followed the dictates of 
our understanding. But as our nature is constituted, I may be 
convinced that virtue, justice, or public spirit, are laudable, 
while, at the same time, I am not persuaded to act according to 
them. The inclination may revolt, though the understanding be 
satisfied ; the passions may prevail against the judgment. Con- 
viction is, however, always one avenue to the inclination, or 
heart ; and it is that which an orator must first bend his strength 
to gain : for no persuasion is likely to be stable, which is not 
founded on conviction. But, in order to persuade, the orator 
must go farther than merely producing conviction ; he must con- 
sider man as a creature moved by many different springs, and 
must act upon them all. He must address himself to the pas- 
sions ; he must paint to the fancy, and touch the heart ; and 
hence, besides solid argument, and clear method, all the conciliat 



310 LECTURE XXV. 

ing and interesting arts, both of composition and pronunciation, 
enter into the idea of eloquence. 

An objection may, perhaps, hence be formed against elo- 
quence ; as an art which may be employed for persuading to ill, 
as well as to good. There is no doubt that it may ; and so rea- 
soning may also be, and too often is employed, for leading men 
into error. But who would think of forming an argument from 
this against the cultivation of our reasoning powers ? Reason, 
eloquence, and every art which ever has been studied among 
mankind, may be abused, and may prove dangerous in the 
hands of bad men ; but it were perfectly childish to contend; 
that, upon this account, they ought to be abolished. Give 
truth and virtue the same arms which you give vice and false- 
hood, and the former are likely to prevail. Eloquence is no 
invention of the schools. Nature teaches every man to be 
eloquent, when he is much in earnest. Place him in some 
critical situation ; let him have some great interest at stake, 
and you will see him lay hold of the most effectual means of 
persuasion. The art of oratory proposes nothing more than 
to follow out that track which nature has first pointed out. 
And the more exactly that this track is pursued, the more that 
eloquence is properly studied, the more shall we be guarded 
against the abuse which bad men make of it, and enabled the 
better to distinguish between true eloquence and the tricks of 
sophistry. 

We may distinguish three kinds, or degrees, of eloquence. 
The first, and lowest, is that which aims only at pleasing the 
hearers. Such, generally, is the eloquence of panegyrics, in- 
augural orations, addresses to great men, and other harangues 
of this sort. This ornamental sort of composition is not alto- 
gether to be rejected. It may innocently amuse and entertain 
the mind ; and it may be mixed, at the same time, with very use- 
ful sentiments. But it must be confessed, that where the speaker 
has no further aim than merely to shine and to please, there is 
great danger of art being strained into ostentation, and of the 
composition becoming tiresome and languid. 

A second and a higher degree of eloquence is when the 
speaker aims not merely to please, but also to inform, to in- 
struct, to convince : when his art is exerted in removing preju- 
dices against himself and his cause, in choosing the most proper 
arguments, stating them with the greatest force, arranging them 
in the best order, expressing and delivering them with propriety 
and beauty ; and thereby disposing us to pass that judgment, 



ELOQUENCE, OR PUBLIC SPEAKING. Sl7 

or embrace that side of the cause, to which lie seeks to bring 
us. Within, this compass, chiefly, is employed the eloquence of 
the bar. 

But there is a third, and still higher degree of eloquence, 
wherein a greater power is exerted over the human mind ; by 
which we are not only convinced, but are interested, agitated, 
and carried along with the speaker ; our passions are made to 
rise together with his ; we enter into all his emotions ; we love, 
we detest, we resent, according as he inspires us ; and are 
prompted to resolve, or to act, with vigour and warmth. De- 
bate in popular assemblies opens the most illustrious field to 
this species of eloquence ; and the pulpit, also, admits it. 

I am here to observe, and the observation is of consequence^ 
that the high eloquence which I have last mentioned, is always 
the offspring of passion. By passion, I mean that state of the 
mind in which it is agitated, and fired, by some object it has in 
view. A man may convince, and even persuade others to act, 
by mere reason and argument. But that degree of eloquence 
which gains the admiration of mankind, and properly denomi- 
nates one an orator, is never found without warmth or passion. 
Passion, when in such a degree as to rouse and kindle the mind, 
without throwing it out of the possession of itself, is universally 
found to exalt all the human powers. It renders the mind in- 
finitely more enlightened, more penetrating, more vigorous and 
masterly, than it is in its calm moments. A man, actuated by a 
strong passion, becomes much greater than he is at other times. 
He is conscious of more strength and force ; he utters greater 
sentiments, conceives higher designs, and executes them with a 
boldness and a felicity of which, on other occasions, he could 
not think himself capable. But chiefly, with respect to persua- 
sion, is the power of passion felt. Almost every man, in pas- 
sion, is eloquent. Then, he is at no loss for words and argu- 
ments. He transmits to others, by a sort of contagious sympa- 
thy, the warm sentiments which he feels : his looks and gestures 
are all persuasive ; and nature here shows herself infinitely 
more powerful than art. This is the foundation of that just and 
noted rule : * Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipse tibi." 

This principle being once admitted, that all high eloquence 
flows from passion, several consequences follow, which deserve 
to be attended to ; and the mention of which will serve to 
confirm the principle itself. For hence the universally acknow- 
ledged effect of enthusiasm, or warmth of any kind, in public 
speakers, for affecting their audience. Hence all laboured de- 



318 LECTURE XXV. 

clamation, and affected ornaments of style, which show the mind 
to be cool and unmoved, are so inconsistent with persuasive elo- 
quence. Hence all studied prettinesses, in gesture or pronun- 
ciation, detract so greatly from the weight of a speaker. Hence 
a discourse that is read, moves us less than one that is spoken, 
as having less the appearance of coming warm from the heart. 
Hence, to call a man cold, is the same thing as to say that he is 
not eloquent. Hence a sceptical man, who is always in sus- 
pense, and feels nothing strongly ; or a cunning mercenary man, 
who is suspected rather to assume the appearance of passion 
than to feel it ; have so little power over men in public speaking. 
Hence, in fine, the necessity of being, and being believed to be, 
disinterested, and in earnest, in order to persuade. 

These are some of the capital ideas which have occurred to 
me, concerning eloquence in general ; and with which I have 
thought proper to begin, as the foundation of much of what 
I am afterwards to suggest. From what I have already said, 
it is evident that eloquence is a high talent, and of great import- 
ance in society ; and that it requires both natural genius, and 
much improvement from art. Viewed as the art of persuasion^ 
it requires, in its lowest state, soundness of understanding, and 
considerable acquaintance with human nature ; and, in its higher 
degree, it requires, moreover, strong sensibility of mind, a 
warm and lively imagination, joined with correctness of judg- 
ment, and an extensive command of the power of language ; to 
which must also be added, the graces of pronunciation and de- 
livery.— Let us next proceed to Consider in what state eloquence 
has subsisted in different ages and nations. 

It is an observation made by several Avriters, that eloquence 
is to be looked for only in free states. Longinus, in particular, 
at the end of his treatise on the sublime, when assigning the 
reason why so little sublimity of genius appeared in the age 
wherein he lived, illustrates this observation with a great deal 
of beauty. Liberty, he remarks, is the nurse of true genius ; 
it animates the spirit, and invigorates the hopes of men ; excites 
honourable emulation, and a desire of excelling in every art. 
All other qualifications, he says, you may find among those who 
are deprived of liberty ; but never did a slave become an ora- 
tor ; he can only be a pompous flatterer. Now, though this 
reasoning be, in the main, true; it must, however, be under- 
stood with some limitations. For, under arbitrary governments, 
if they be of the civilized kind, and give encouragement to the 
arts, ornamented eloquence may flourish remarkably. Witness 



HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE. 319 

France at this day, where ever since the reign of Louis XIV. 
more of what may justly be called eloquence, within a certain 
sphere, is to be found, than perhaps, in any other nation in Eu- 
rope ; though freedom be enjoyed by some nations in a much 
greater degree. The French sermons, and orations pronounced 
on public occasions, are not only polite and elegant harangues, 
but several of them are uncommonly spirited, are animated 
with bold figures, and rise to a degree of the sublime. Their 
eloquence, however, in general, must be confessed to be of the 
flowery, rather than the vigorous kind ; calculated more to 
please and sooth, than to convince and persuade. High, manly, 
and forcible eloquence/ is, indeed, to be looked for only, or 
chiefly, in the regions of freedom. Under arbitrary govern- 
ments, besides the general turn of softness and effeminacy which 
such governments may be justly supposed to give to the spirit 
of a nation, the art of speaking cannot be such an instrument of 
ambition, business, and power, as it is in democractical states. 
It is confined within a narrower range ; it can be employed only 
in the pulpit, or at the bar ; but is excluded from those great 
scenes of public business, where the spirits of men have the 
freest exertion ; where important affairs are transacted, and per- 
suasion, of course, is more seriously studied. Wherever man 
can acquire most power over man by means of reason and dis- 
course, which certainly is under a free state of government* 
there we may naturally expect that true eloquence will be best 
understood, and carried to the greatest height. 

Hence, in tracing the rise of oratory, we need not attempt 
to go far back into the early ages of the world, or search for it 
among the monuments of eastern or Egyptian antiquity. In 
those ages, there was, indeed, an eloquence of a certain kind ; 
but it approached nearer to poetry, than to what we properly 
call oratory. There is reason to believe, as I formerly showed, 
that the language of the first ages was passionate and metapho- 
rical ; owing partly to the scanty stock of words, of which 
speech then consisted ; and partly to the tincture which lan- 
guage naturally takes from the savage and uncultivated state of 
men, agitated by unrestrained passions, and struck by events, 
which to them are strange and surprising. In this state, rap- 
ture and enthusiasm, the parents of poetry, had an ample field. 
But while the intercourse of men was as yet unfrequent, and 
force and strength were the chief means employed in deciding 
controversies, the arts of oratory and persuasion, of reasoning 
and debate, could be but little known. The first empires that 



320 LECTURE XXV. 

arose, the Assyrian and Egyptian, were of the despotic kind 
The whole power was in the hands of one, or at most of a few. 
The multitude were accustomed to a blind reverence ; they were 
led, not persuaded ; and none of those refinements of society, 
which make public speaking an object of importance, were as 
yet introduced. 

It is not till the rise of the Grecian republics, that we find 
any remarkable appearances of eloquence as the art of persua- 
sion ; and these gave it such a field as it never had before, and 
perhaps, has never had again since that time. And, therefore, 
as the Grecian eloquence has ever been the object of admiration 
to those who have studied the powers of speech, it is necessary 
that we fix our attention, for a little on this period. 

Greece was divided into a multitude of petty states. These 
were governed at first by kings, who were called tyrants ; on 
whose expulsion from all these states, there sprung up a great 
number of democratical governments, founded nearly on the 
same plan, animated by the same high spirit of freedom, 
mutually jealous, and rivals of one another. We may compute 
the flourishing period of those Grecian states to have lasted 
from the battle of Marathon, till the time of Alexander the 
Great, who subdued the liberties of Greece ; a period which 
comprehends about 150 years, and within which are to be found 
most of their celebrated poets and philosophers, but chiefly their 
orators ; for though poetry and philosophy were not extinct 
among them after that period, yet eloquence hardly made any 
figure. 

Of these Grecian republics, the most noted by far, for elo- 
quence, and, indeed, for arts of every kind, was that of Athens. 
The Athenians were an ingenious, quick, sprightly people ; prac- 
tised in business, and sharpened by frequent and sudden revo- 
lutions, which happened in their government. The genius of 
their government was altogether democratical ; their legislature 
consisted of the whole body of the people. They had, indeed, 
a senate of five hundred ; but in the general convention of the 
citizens was placed the last resort ; and affairs were conducted 
there, entirely, by reasoning, speaking, and a skilful application 
to the passions and interests of a popular assembly. There laws 
were made, peace and war decreed, and thence the magistrates 
were chosen. For the highest honours of the state were alike 
open to all ; nor was the meanest tradesman excluded from a 
seat in their supreme courts. In such a state, eloquence, it is 
obvious, would be much studied, as the surest means of rising 



GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 



321 



to influence and power ; and what sort of eloquence ? Not 
that which was brilliant merely, and showy, but that which was 
found, upon trial, to be most effectual for convincing, interesting, 
and persuading the hearers. For there, public speaking was 
not a mere competition for empty applause, but a serious conten- 
tion for that public leading, which was the great object both of 
the men of ambition, and the men of virtue. 

In so enlightened and acute a nation, where the highest at- 
tention was paid to every thing elegant in the arts, we may natu- 
rally expect to find the public taste refined and judicious. Ac- 
cordingly, it was improved to such a degree, that the Attic 
taste and Attic manner have passed into a proverb. It is true, 
that ambitious demagogues, and corrupt orators, did sometimes 
dazzle and mislead the people, by a showy but false eloquence ; 
for the Athenians, with all their acuteness, were factious and 
giddy, and great admirers of every novelty. But when some 
important interest drew their attention, when any great danger 
'oused them, and put their judgment to a serious trial, they com- 
monly distinguished, very justly, between genuine and spurious 
eloquence : and hence Demosthenes triumphed over all his op- 
ponents ; because he spoke always to the purpose, affected no 
insignificant parade of words, used weighty arguments, and 
showed them clearly where their interest lay. In critical con- 
junctures of the state, when the public was alarmed with some 
pressing danger, when the people were assembled, and procla- 
mation was made by the crier, for any one to rise and deliver his 
opinion upon the present situation of affairs, empty declamation 
and sophistical reasoning would not only have been hissed, but 
resented and punished by an assembly so intelligent and accus- 
tomed to business. Their greatest orators trembled on such 
occasions, when they rose to address the people, as they knew 
they were to be held answerable for the issue of the counsel 
which they gave. The most liberal endowments of the greatest 
princes never could found such a school for true oratory, as was 
formed by the nature of the Athenian republic. Eloquence 
there sprung, native and vigorous, from amidst the contentious 
of faction and freedom, of public business and of active life ; 
and not from that retirement and speculation, which we are apt 
sometimes to fancy more favourable to eloquence than they are 
found to be. 

Pisistratus, who was contemporary with Solon, and sub- 
verted his plan of government, is mentioned by Plutarch, as 

V 






322 LECTURE XXV. 

the first who distinguished himself among the Athenians by 
application to the arts of speech. His ability in these arts, he 
employed for raising himself to the sovereign power ; which 
however, when he had attained it, he exercised with modera- 
tion. Of the orators who flourished between his time and the 
Peloponnesian war, no particular mention is made in history 
Pericles, who died about the beginning of that war, was properly 
the first who carried eloquence to a great height ; to such a 
height, indeed, that it does not appear he was ever afterwards 
surpassed. He was more than an orator ; he was also a states- 
man and a general ; expert in business, and of consummate 
address. Forty years he governed Athens with absolute sway; 
and historians ascribe his influence, not more to his political 
talents than to his eloquence, which was of that forcible and 
vehement kind, that bore every thing before it, and triumphed 
over the passions and affections of the people. Hence he had 
the surname of Olympias given him ; and it was said, that, 
like Jupiter, he thundered when he spoke. Though his am- 
bition be liable to censure, yet he was distinguished for several 
virtues ; and it was the confidence which the people reposed in 
his integrity, that gave such a powerful effect to his eloquence. 
He appears to have been generous, magnanimous, and public- 
spirited ; he raised no fortune to himself ; he expended indeed 
great sums of the public money, but chiefly on public works, 
and at his death is said to have valued himself principally on 
having never obliged any citizen to wear mourning on his ac- 
count, during his long administration. It is a remarkable par- 
ticular recorded of Pericles, by Suidas, that he was the first 
Athenian who composed, and put into writing, a discourse de- 
signed for the public. 

Posterior to Pericles, in the course of the Peloponnesian 
war, arose Cleon, Alcibiades, Critias, and Theramenes, eminent 
citizens of Athens, who were all distinguished for their elo- 
quence. They were not orators by profession ; they were not 
formed by schools, but by a much more powerfid education, 
that of business and debate ; where man sharpened man, and 
civil affairs carried on by public speaking, brought every power 
of the mind into action. The manner or style of oratory which 
then prevailed, we learn from the orations in the History o>" 
Thucydides, who also flourished in the same age. It was manly 
vehement, and concise even to some degree of obscurity. 
u Grandes erant verbis," savs Cicero, " crebri sententiisj com- 

- 



GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 3 23 

pressione rerum breves, et, ob eamipsam causam, intertlum sub- 
obscuri."* A manner very different from what in modem times we 
would conceive to be the style of popular oratory ; and which 
tends to give a high idea of the acuteness o f those audiences to 
which they spoke. 

The power of eloquence having, after the days of Pericles, 
become an object of greater consequence than ever, this gave 
birth to a set of men till then unknown, called rhetoricians, and 
sometimes sophists, who arose in multitudes during the Pelopon- 
nesian war ; such as Protagoras, Prodicas , Thrasymus, and one 
who was more eminent than all the rest, Gorgias of Leontium. 
These sophists joined to their art of rhetoric a subtle logic, and 
were generally a sort of metaphysical sceptics. Gorgias, how- 
ever, was a professed master of eloquence only. His reputation 
was prodigious. He was highly venerated in Leontium of Sicily, 
his native city, and money was coined with his name upon it. 
In the latter part of his life, he established himself at Athens, 
and lived till he had attained the age of 105 years. Her- 
mogenes (de Ideis, lib. ii. cap. 9.) has preserved a fragment of 
his, from which we see his style and manner. It is extremely 
quaint and artificial ; full of antithesis and pointed expression ; 
and shows how far the Grecian subtilty had already carried the 
study of language. These rhetoricians did not content them- 
selves with delivering general instructions concerning eloquence 
to their pupils, and endeavouring to form their taste ; but they 
professed the art of giving them receipts for making all sorts of 
orations ; and of teaching them how to speak for, and against, 
every cause whatever. Upon this plan, they were the first who 
treated of common places, and the artificial invention of argu- 
ments and topics for every subject. In the hands of such men, 
we may easily believe that oratory would degenerate from the 
masculine strain it had hitherto held, and become a trifling ani 
sophistical art ; and we may justly deem them the first corrupt- 
ers of true eloquence. To them, the great Socrates opposed 
himself. By a profound but simple reasoning peculiar to himself, ' 
he exploded their sophistry ; and endeavoured to recal men's 
attention from that abuse of reasoning and discourse which be- 
gan to be in vogue, to natural language, and sound and useful 
thought. 

In the same age, though somewhat later than the philoso- 

* " They were magnificent in their expressions ; they abounded in thought ; 
they compressed their matter into few words ; and, by their brevity, were some- 
times obscure." 

Y 2 



321 LECTURE XXV. 

pher above mentioned, flourished Isocrates, whose writings are 
still extant. He was a professed rhetorician ; and by teaching 
eloquence, he acquired both a great fortune, and higher 
fame than any of his rivals in that profession. No con- 
temptible orator he was. His orations are full of morality and 
good sentiments; they are flowing and smooth: but too desti- 
tute of vigour. He never engaged in public affairs, nor 
pleaded causes; and accordingly his orations are calculated 
only for the shade : u Pompae," Cicero allows, u quam pugnae 
aptior ; ad voluptatem aurium accommodatus potius quam ad 
judiciorum certamen."* The style of Gorgias of Leontium 
was formed into short sentences, composed generally of two 
members balanced against each other. The style of Iso- 
crates, on the contrary, is swelling and full ; and he is 
said to be the first who introduced the method of composing in 
regular periods, which had a studied music and harmonious 
cadence ; a manner which he has carried to a vicious excess. 
What shall we think of an orator, who employed ten years in 
composing one discourse, still extant, entitled the Panegyric ? 
How much frivolous care must have been bestowed on all the 
minute elegance of words and sentences ! Dionysius of Hali- 
carnassus has given us upon the orations of Isocrates, as also 
upon those of some other Greek orators, a full and regular 
treatise, which is, in my opinion, one of the most judicious 
pieces of ancient criticism extant, and very worthy of being con- 
sulted. He commends the splendour of Isocrates's style, and 
the morality of his sentiments ; but severely censures his affecta- 
tion, and the uniform regular cadence of all his sentences. He 
holds him to be a florid declaimer; not a natural persuasive 
speaker. Cicero, in his critical works, though he admits his 
failings, yet discovers a propensity to be very favourable to 
that " plena ac numerosa oratio," that swelling and musical 
style which Isocrates introduced ; and with the love of which, 
Cicero himself was, perhaps, somewhat infected. In one of his 
treatises (Orat. ad M. Brut.) he informs us, that his friend Brutus 
and he differed in this particular, and that Brutus found fault 
with his partiality to Isocrates. The manner of Isocrates gene- 
rally catches young people, when they begin to attend to com. 
position ; and it is very natural that it should do so. It gives 
them an idea of that regularity, cadence, and magnificence of 
ityle, which fills the ear : but when they come to write or speak 

• " More fitted for show than for debate ; better calculated for the amuse- 
went of an audience, than for judicial r»ntesls." 



GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 



3"23 



for the world, they will find this ostentatious manner unfit, either 
for carrying on business, or commanding attention. It is said, 
that the high reputation of Isocrates prompted Aristotle, who 
was nearly his contemporary, or lived but a little time after him, 
to write his Institutions of Rhetoric ; which are indeed formed 
upon a plan of eloquence very different from that of Isocrates 
and the rhetoricians of that time. He seems to have had it in 
view to direct the attention of orators much more towards con- 
vincing and affecting their hearers, than towards the musical 
cadence of periods. 

Iseeus and Lysias, some of whose orations are preserved, 
belong also to this period. Lysias was somewhat earlier than 
Isocrates, and is the model of that manner which the ancients 
call the " tenuis vel subtilis." He has none of Isocrates's pomp. 
He is every where pure and Attic in the highest degree ; simple 
and unaffected ; but wants force, and is sometimes frigid in his 
compositions.* Isasus is chiefly remarkable for being the mas- 



* In the judicious comparison, which Dionysius of Halicaruassus makes of the 
merits of Lysias and Isocrates, he ascribes to Lysias, as the distinguishing 
character of his manner, a certain grace or elegance arising from simplicity ; 

Kttpvxt yap t) Avtiov ke{-i( eyeiv to yapm' *l ^ 'lffoxp&nvi, /8ouX«t«i. ' The style of 

Lysias has gracefulness for its nature; that of Isocrates seeks to have it." In 
the art of narration, as distinct, probable, and persuasive, he holds Lysias to be 
superior to all orators : at the same time, he admits that his composition is more 
adapted to private litigation than to great subjects. He convinces, but he does 
not elevate nor animate. The magnificence and splendour of Isocrates is more 
suited to great occasions. He is more agreeable than Lysias ; and, in dignity of 
sentiment, far excels him. With regard to the affectation which is visible in 
Isocrates's manner, he concludes what he says of it with the following excellent 
observations, which should never be forgoten by any who aspire to be true 

orators : Tijf /U£vto< ctywyrji Twv irtpiiitav TO xux\tw, x«) t&v fyjrifittTifffiaJv Trff \ilji<i>s to 
finpaxtwlt;, oix !8ox/jua£ov' SovXsiitt yap q 8;avo<a TroXXaxif rSi pvdjxoj Tijf \e|s«if, xa) T»C 
KOyU\J/oCi Kthrnat to a.Kr\Qiv6i>' xpanariv t' egnifiwi** it liahixiui ttoXitixi), xa) Ivayuin'ai, 
to oyuoioVarov tu> xara. tpitriv. PouKirai 8e r> (fuais toTj vo^uairiv k'vta&m tzjv te$w, oiJ rrj 
Kst-ti Ta »oijyU«T«' o"U/t§ouXd> 8e 8)j aep) TroKe/xou xa) elp^ttn Keyovri, xa) iSituTi) tov itcp) vf/u^ijf 
rpiyjniTi xhSvvov et Sixao"Ta7f, Ta xo/u-J/a, xa) Qtmpixa, xa) fitipaxtwivi raura oCx oi8a ijt<»« 
8uva;ro av irapaayjtv difyeheixv' ftaXKov 8' 018a o ti xa) @ha@ris av airia ytvoiro. yapttt- 
tic/m; yap way e> <r?rou8>5 xa) xaKw; yt\/6/Jiivi>s, otwpw vpay/xa xai iroXiftwTa-rov iAew. 

Judic. de Isocrate, § xii. p. 558. " His studied circumflexion of periods, and juvenile 
affectation of the flowers of speech, I do not approve. The thought is frequently 
made subservient to the music of the sentence ; and elegance is preferred to 
reason. Whereas, in every discourse, where business and affairs are concerned, 
nature ought to be followed : and nature certainly dictates that the expression 
should be an object subordinate to the sense, not the sense to the expression. 
When one rises to give public counsel concerning war and peace, or takes the 
charge of a private man, who is standing at the bar to be tried for his life, those 
studied decorations, those theatrical graces and juvenile flowers, are out ot 
place. Instead of being of service, they are detrimental to the cause we espouse. 
When the contest is of a serious kind, ornaments, which at another time would 
have beauty, then lose their effect, and prove hostile to the affections which we 
wish to raise in our hearers." 



W> LECTURE XXV. 

ter of the great Demosthenes, in whom, it must be acknow- 
ledged, eloquence shone forth with higher splendour, than 
perhaps in any that ever bore the name of an orator, and whose 
manner and character, therefore, must deserve our particular 
attention. 

I shall not spend any time upon the circumstances of Demos- 
thenes' life ; they are all well known. The strong ambition which 
he discovered to excel in the art of speaking ; the unsuccessful- 
ness of his first attempts ; his unwearied perseverance in sur- 
mounting all the disadvantages that arose from his person and 
address ; his shutting himself up in a cave, that he might study 
with less distraction ; his declaiming by the sea-shore, that he 
might accustom himself to the noise of a tumultuous assembly, 
and with pebbles in his mouth, that he might correct a defect in 
his speech ; his practising at home with a naked sword hanging 
over bis sjioulder, that he might check an ungraceful motion, to 
which he was subject ; all those circumstances which we learn 
from Plutarch, are very encouraging to such as study eloquence, 
as they show how far art and application may avail, for ac- 
quiring an excellence which nature seemed unwilling to grant us. 

Despising the affected and florid manner which the rhetori- 
cians of that age followed, Demosthenes returned to the forcible 
and manly eloquence of Pericles ; and strength and vehemence 
form the principal characteristics of his style. Never had 
orator a finer field than Demosthenes in his Olynthiacs and 
Philippics, which are his capital orations ; and, no doubt, to the 
nobleness of the subject, and to that integrity and public spirit 
which eminently breathe in them, they are indebted for much of 
their merit. The subject is, to rouse the indignation of his 
countrymen against Philip of Macedon, the public enemy of the 
liberties of Greece ; arid to guard them against the insidious 
measures, by which that crafty prince endeavoured to lay them 
asleep to danger. In the prosecution of this end, we see him 
taking every proper method to animate a people, renowned for 
justice, humanity, and valour, but in many instances become 
corrupt and degenerate. He boldly taxes them with their 
venality, their indolence, and indifference to the public cause ; 
while at the same time, with all the art of an orator, he recals 
the glory of their ancestors to their thoughts, shows them that 
they are still a flourishing and a powerful people, the natural 
protectors of the liberty of Greece, and who wanted only the in- 
clination to exert themselves, in order to make Philip tremble. 
With his contemporary orators, who were in Philip's interest, 



DEMOSTHENES. 327 

and who persuaded the people to peace, he keeps no measures, 
but plainly reproaches them as the betrayers of their country. 
He not only prompts to vigorous conduct, but he lays down the 
plan of that conduct ; he enters into particulars ; and points out, 
with great exactness, the measures of execution. This is the 
strain of these orations. They are strongly animated ; and full 
of the impetuosity and fire of public spirit. They proceed in a 
continued train of inductions, consequences, and demonstrations, 
founded on sound reason. The figures which he uses, are never 
sought after ; but always rise from the subject. He employs 
them sparingly indeed ; for splendour and ornament are not the 
distinctions of this orator's composition. It is an energy of 
thought peculiar to himself, which forms his character, and sets 
him above all others. He appears to attend much more to 
things than to words. We forget the orator, and think of the 
business. He warms the mind, and impels to action. He has 
no parade and ostentation ; no methods of insinuation ; no la- 
boured introductions ; but is like a man full of his subject, who, 
after preparing his audience by a sentence or two for hearing 
plain truths, enters directly on business. 

Demosthenes appears to great advantage, when contrasted 
with iEschines, in the celebrated oration " pro Corona." iEschi- 
nes was his rival in business, and personal enemy ; and one of 
the most distinguished orators of that age. But when we read 
the two orations, iEschines is feeble in comparison of Demos- 
thenes, and makes much less impression on the mind. His 
reasonings, concerning the law that was in question, are indeed 
very subtle ; but his invective against Demosthenes is general 
and ill supported. Whereas Demosthenes is a torrent, that 
nothing can resist. He bears down his antagonist with violence ; 
he draws his character in the strongest colours ; and the particu- 
lar merit of that oration is, that all the descriptions in it are 
highly picturesque. There runs through it a strain of magnani- 
mity and high honour : the orator speaks with that strength and 
conscious dignity which great actions and public spirit alone 
inspire. Both orators use great liberties with one another ; and- 
in general, that unrestrained license which ancient manners per- 
mitted, and which was carried by public speakers even to the 
length of abusive names, and downright scurrility, as appears 
both here and in Cicero's Philippics, hurts and offends a modern 
ear. What those ancient orators gained by such a manner in 
nomt of freedom and boldness is more than compensated by 



828 LECTURE XXV. 

want of dignity ; which seems to give an advantage, in tim re- 
spect, to the greater decency of modern speaking. 

The style of Demosthenes is strong and concise, though 
sometimes, it mu3t not be dissembled, harsh and abrupt. His 
words are very expressive ; his arrangement is firm and manly ; 
and, though far from being unmusical, yet it seems difficult to 
find in him that studied, but concealed, number and rhythmus, 
which some of the ancient critics are fond of attributing to him. 
Negligent of these lesser graces, one would rather conceive him 
to have aimed at that sublime which lies in sentiment. His ac- 
tion and pronunciation are recorded to have been uncommonly 
vehement and ardent ; which, from the manner of his composition, 
we are naturally led to believe. The character which one forms 
of him, from reading his works, is of the austere, rather than the 
gentle kind. He is, on every occasion, grave, serious, passion- 
ate ; takes every thing on a high tone ; never lets himself down, 
nor attempts any thing like pleasantry. If any fault can be found, 
with his admirable eloquence, it is, that he sometimes borders on 
the hard and dry. He may be thought to want smoothness 
and grace ; which Dionysius of Halicarnassus attributes to his 
imitating too closely the manner of Thucydides, who was his 
great model for style, and whose history he is said to have writ- 
ten eight times over with his own hand. But these defects are 
far more than compensated, by that admirable and masterly 
force of masculine eloquence, which, as it overpowered all who 
heard it, cannot, at this day, be read without emotion. 

After the days of Demosthenes, Greece lost her liberty ; elo- 
quence of course languished, and relapsed again into the feeble 
manner introduced by the rhetoricians and sophists. Deme- 
trius Phalereus, who lived in the next age to Demosthenes, at- 
tained indeed some character, but he is represented to us as a 
flowery, rather than a persuasive speaker, who aimed at grace 
rather than substance. " Delectabat Athenienses," says Cicero, 
" magis quam inflammabat." "He amused the Athenians, rather 
than warmed them." And after his lime, we hea* - of no more 
Grecian orators of any note 



329 



LECTURE XXVI. 

HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE CONTINUED— ROMAN ELOQUENCE- 
CICERO— MODERN ELOQUENCE. 

Having treated of the rise of eloquence, and of its state 
among the Greeks, we now proceed to consider its progress 
among the Romans, where we shall find one model, at least, of 
eloquence, in its most splendid and illustrious form. The Ro- 
mans were long a martial nation, altogether rude, and unskilled 
in arts of any kind. Arts were of late introduction among them ; 
they were not known till after the conquest of Greece ; and the 
Romans always acknowledged the Grecians as their masters in 
every part of learning. 

Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit, et artes 

Intulit agresti Latio.* Hor, Epist. ad Aug. v. 156. 

As the Romans derived their eloquence, poetry, and learning, 
from the Greeks, so they must be confessed to be far inferior to 
them in genius for all these accomplishments. They were a 
more grave and magnificent, but a less acute and sprightly 
people. They had neither the vivacity nor the sensibility of the 
Greeks ; their passions were not so easily moved, nor their 
conceptions so lively ; in comparison of them, they were a 
phlegmatic nation. Their language resembled their character ; 
it was regular, firm, and stately ; but wanted that simple and 
expressive naivete, and, in particular, that flexibility to suit every 
different mode and species of composition, for which the Greek 
tongue is distinguished above that of every other country. 

Gratis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 

Musa loqni. 1 Ars Poet. v. 323. 

And hence, when we compare together the various rival pro- 
ductions of Greece and Rome, we shall always find this distinc- 
tion obtain, that in the Greek productions there is more native 
genius ; in the Roman, more regularity and art. What tin; 

* " When conqtier'd Greece brought in her captive arts, 
She triumph'd o'er her savage conquerors' hearts ; 
Taught our rough verse its numbers to refine, 
And our rude style with elegance to shine." — Francis. 

t " To her lov'd Greeks the Muse indulgent gave, 
To her lov'd Greeks with greatness to conceive. ; 
And in sublimer tone their language raise : 
Her- Greeks were only covetous of praise." — Francis. 



330 LECTURE XXVI. 

Greeks invented, the Romans polished, the one was the 
original, rough sometimes, and incorrect ; the other, a finished 
copy. 

As the Roman government, during the republic, was of the 
popular kind, there is no doubt but that, in the hands of the 
leading men, public speaking became early an engine of govern- 
ment, and was employed for gaining distinction and power. 
But in the rude unpolished times of the state, their speaking 
was hardly of that sort that could be called eloquence. Though 
Cicero, in his treatise " de Claris Oratoribus," endeavours to 
give some reputation to the elder Cato, and those who were his 
contemporaries, yet he acknowledges it to have been " asperum 
et horridum genus dicendi," a rude and harsh strain of speech. 
It was not till a short time preceding Cicero's age, that the 
Roman orators rose into any note ; Crassus and Antonius, two 
of the speakers in the Dialogue de Oratore, appear to have been 
the most eminent, whose different manners Cicero describes with 
great beauty in that dialogue, and in his other rhetorical works. 
But as none of their productions are extant, nor any of Horten- 
sius's, who was Cicero's contemporary and rival at the bar, it is 
needless to transcribe from Cicero's writings the account which 
he gives of those great men, and of the character of their 
eloquence.* 

The object in th's period most worthy to draw our attention, 
is Cicero himself; whose name alone suggests every thing that 
is splendid in oratory. With the history of his life, and with 
his character as a man and a politician, we have not at present 
any direct concern. We consider him only as an eloquent 
speaker ; and, in this view, it is our business to remark both his 
virtues and his defects, if he has any. His virtues are, beyond 
controversy, eminently great. In all his orations there is high 
art. He begins, generally, with a regular exordium ; and with 
much preparation and insinuation prepossesses the hearers, and 
studies to gain their affections. His method is clear, and his 
arguments are arranged with great propriety. His method is 
indeed more clear than that of Demosthenes ; and this is one 
advantage which he has over him. We find every thing in its 
proper place ; he never attempts to move, till he has endea- 
voured to convince ; and in moving, especially the softer pas- 

* Such as are desirous of particular information on this head, had better 
have recourse to the original, by reading Cicero's three books de Oratore, anc 
bis other two treatises, entitled, the one, Brutus, sive de Claris Oratoribus • 
tbc other, Orator ad M. Brutuni ; which, on several accounts, well deserve 
perusal. 



CICERO. 



331 



sions, lie is very successful. No man knew the power and force 
of words better than Cicero. He rolls them along with the 
greatest beauty and pomp ; and in the structure of his sentences, 
is curious and exact to the highest degree. He is always full 
and flowing, never abrupt. He is a great amplifier of every 
subject ; magnificent, and in his sentiments highly moral. His 
manner is on the whole diffuse, yet it is often happily varied, and 
suited to the subject. In his four orations, for instance, against 
Catiline, the tone and style of each of them, particularly the first 
and last, is very different, and accommodated with a great deal 
of judgment to the occasion, and the situation in which they 
were spoken. When a great public object roused his mind, and 
demanded indignation and force, he departs considerably from 
that loose and declamatory manner to which he leans at other 
times, and becomes exceedingly cogent and vehement. This is 
the case in his orations against Antony, and in those two against 
\erres and Catiline. 

Together with those high qualities which Cicero possesses, 
he is not exempt from certain defects, of which it is necessary 
to take notice. For the Ciceronian eloquence is a pattern so daz- 
zling by its beauties, that, if not examined with accuracy and 
judgment, it is apt to betray the unwary into a faulty imitation ; 
and I am of opinion, that it has sometimes produced this effect. 
In most of his orations, especially those composed in the earlier 
part of his life, there is too much art; even carried the length of 
ostentation. There is too visible a parade of eloquence. He 
seems often to aim at obtaining admiration, rather than at operat- 
ing conviction, by what he says. Hence, on some occasions, he 
is showy rather than solid ; and diffuse where he ought to have 
been pressing. His sentences are, at all times, round and son- 
orous ; they cannot be accused of monotony, for they possess 
variety of cadence ; but from too great a study of magnificence, 
he is sometimes deficient in strength. On all occasions, where 
there is. the least room for it, he is full of himself. His great 
actions, and the real services which he had performed to his 
country, apologize, for this in part ; ancient manners, too, im- 
posed fewer restraints from the side of decorum ; but, even after 
these allowances made, Cicero's ostentation of himself cannot be 
wholly palliated ; and his orations, indeed all his works leave on 
our minds the impression of a good man, but withal, of a vain man. 

The defects which we have now taken notice of in Cicero's 
eloquence were not unobserved by his own contemporaries This 



332 LECTURE XXVI. 

we learn from Quintilian, and from the author of tne dialogue 
" de Causis Corrupta3 Eloquentiae." Brutus, we are informed, 
called him, " fractum et elumbem," broken and enervated. 
" Suorum homines temporum," says Quintilian, " incessere 
audebant eum, ut tumidiorem et Asianum, et redundantem, et in 
repetitionibus nimium, et in salibus aliquando frigidum, et in 
compositione fractum exsultantem, ac pene viro molliorem."* 
These censures were undoubtedly carried too far ; and savour 
of malignity and personal enmity. They saw his defects, but they 
aggravated them ; and the source of these aggravations can be 
traced to the difference which prevailed in Rome^ in Cicero's 
clays, between two great parties with respect to eloquence ; the 
" Attici," and the " Asiani." The former, who called themselves 
the Attics, were the patrons of what they conceived to be the 
chaste, simple, and natural style of eloquence ; from which they 
accused Cicero as having departed, and as leaning to the florid 
Asiatic manner. In several of his rhetorical works, particularly 
in his " Orator ad Brutum," Cicero, in his turn, endeavours to 
expose this sect, as substituting a frigid and jejune manner, in 
place of the true Attic eloquence ; and contends that his own 
composition was formed upon the real Attic style. In the tenth 
chapter of the last book of Quintilian's Institutions, a full account 
is given of the disputes between these two parties, and of the 
Rhodian or middle manner between the Attics and the Asiatics. 
Quintilian himself declares on Cicero's side ; and whether it be 
called Attic or Asiatic, prefers the full, the copious, and the 
amplifying style. He concludes with this very just observation : 
" Plures sunt ejoquentiae facies ; sed stultissimum est quaerere, 
ad quam recturus se sit orator ; cum omnis species, quae modo 
recta est, habeat usum. — Utetur enim, ut res exiget, omnibus, 
nee pro causa modo, sed et pro partibus causae."-}- 

On the subject of comparing Cicero and Demosthenes, much 
has been said by critical writers. The different manners of 
these two princes of eloquence, and the distinguishing charac- 

* " His contemporaries ventured to reproach him as swelling, redundant, and 
Asiatic ; too frequent in repetitions ; in his attempts towards wit sometimes 
cold : and, in the strain of his composition, feeble, desultory, and more effeminate 
than became a man." — xii. 10. 12. 

t " Eloquence admits of many different forms ; and nothing can be more 
foolish than to inquire, by which of them an orator is to regulate his composi- 
tion ; since every form which is in itself just, has its own place and use. The 
orator, according as circumstances require, will employ them all ; suiting them 
not only to the cause or subject of which he treats, but to the different parts of 
that subject."— xii. 10. 69. 



CICERO. 



333 



ters of each, are so strongly marked in their writings, that the 
comparison is, in many respects, obvious and easy. The charac- 
ter of Demosthenes is vigour and austerity ; that of Cicero is 
gentleness and insinuation. In the one, you find more manliness ;. 
in the other, more ornament. The one is more harsh, but more 
spirited and cogent; the other, more agreeable, but withal, 
looser and weaker. 

To account for this difference, without any prejudice to 
Cicero, it has been said, that we must look to the nature of 
their different auditories ; that the refined Athenians followed 
with ease the concise and convincing eloquence of Demos- 
thenes ; but that a manner more popular, more flowery, and 
declamatory, was requisite in speaking to the Romans, a people 
less acute, and less acquainted with the arts of speech. But 
this is not satisfactory. For we must observe, that the Greek 
orator spoke much oftener before a mixed multitude, than the 
Roman. Almost all the public business of Athens was trans- 
acted in popular assemblies. The common people were his 
hearers, and his judges. Whereas Cicero generally addressed 
himself to the " Patres Conscripti," or in criminal trials to the 
praetor, and the select judges ; and it cannot be imagined, that 
the persons of highest rank and best education in Rome, required 
a more diffuse manner of pleading than the common citizens of 
Athens, in order to make them understand the cause, or relish 
the speaker. Perhaps we shall come nearer the truth, by ob- 
serving, that to unite all the qualities, without the least excep- 
tion, that form a perfect orator, and to excel equally in each of 
those qualities, is not to be expected from the limited powers of 
human genius. The highest degree of strength is, I suspect, 
never found united with the highest degree of smoothness and 
ornament ; equal attentions to both are incompatible ; and the 
genius that carries ornament to its utmost length, is not of such 
a kind as can excel as much in vigour. For there plainly 
lies the characteristical difference between these two celebrated 
orators. 

It is a disadvantage to Demosthenes, that, besides his con- 
ciseness, which sometimes produces obscurity, the language in 
which he writes is less familiar to most of us than the Latin, 
and that we are less acquainted with the Greek antiquities than 
we are with the Roman. We read Cicero with more ease, and 
of course with more pleasure. Independent of this circum- 
stance, too, he is, no doubt, in himself, a more agreeable writer 
than the other. But notwithstanding this advantage, I am of 



334 LECTURE XXVI. 

opinion, that were the state in danger, or some great national 
interest at stake, which drew the serious attention of the public 
an oration in the spirit and strain of Demosthenes would have 
more weight, and produce greater effects, than one in the 
Ciceronian manner. Were Demosthenes's Philippics spoken in 
a British assembly, in a similar conjuncture of affairs, they 
would convince and persuade at this day. The rapid style, 
the vehement reasoning, the disdain, anger, boldness, freedom, 
which perpetually animate them, would render their success in- 
fallible over any modern assembly. I question whether the 
same can be said of Cicero's Orations ; whose eloquence, how- 
ever beautiful, and however well suited to the Roman taste, yet 
borders oftener on declamation, and is more remote from the 
manner in which we now expect to hear real business and causes 
of importance treated.* 

In comparing Demosthenes and Cicero, most of the French 
critics are disposed to give the preference to the latter. P. Ra- 
pin the Jesuit, in the parallels which he has drawn between 
some of the most eminent Greek and Roman writers, uniformly 
decides in favour of the Roman. For the preference which he 
gives to Cicero, he assigns, and lays stress on one reason of a 
pretty extraordinary nature ; viz, that Demosthenes could not 
possibly have so complete an insight as Cicero into the manners 
and passions of men ; why ? because he had not the advantage 
of perusing Aristotle's Treatise of Rhetoric, wherein, says our 
critic, he has fully laid open that mystery : and, to support this 
weighty argument, he enters into a controversy with A. Gellius, 
in order to prove that Aristotle's rhetoric was not published till 
after Demosthenes had spoken, at least, his most considerable 
orations. Nothing can be more childish. Such orators as Cicero 
and Demosthenes derived their knowledge of the human pas- 
sions, and their power of moving them, from higher sources 
than any treatise of rhetoric. One French critic has indeed de- 
parted from the common track ; and after bestowing on Cicero 
those just praises to which the consent of so many ages shows 
him to be entitled, concludes, however, with giving the palm tc 
Demosthenes. This is Fenelon, the famous Archbishop o 
Cambray, and author of Telemachus ; himself surely no enemy 
to all the graces and flowers of composition. It is in his Reflec- 

* In this judgment, I concur with Mr. David Hume, in his Essay upon Elo- 
quence. He gives it as his opinion, that, of all human productions, the Orations 
of Demosthenes present to us the models which approach the nearest to per- 
fection. 



CICERO AND DEMOSTHENES. :KJ5 

tions on Rhetoric and Poetry, that lie gives this judgment ; a 
small tract, commoniy published along with his Dialogues on 
Eloquence.* These dialogues and reflections are particularly 
worthy of perusal, as containing, I think, the justest ideas 
on the subject, that are to be met with in any modern critical 
writer. 

The reign of eloquence, among the Romans, was very short. 
After the age of Cicero, it languished, or rather expired ; and 
we have no reason to wonder at this being the case. For not 
only was liberty entirely extinguished, but arbitrary power felt 
in its heaviest and most oppressive weight ; Providence having, 
in its wrath, delivered over the Roman empire to a succession 
of some of the most execrable tyrants that ever disgraced and 
scourged the human race. Under their government, it was natu- 
rally to be expected that taste would be corrupted, and genius 
discouraged. Some of the ornamental arts, less intimately con- 
nected with liberty, continued for a while to prevail ; but for 
that masculine eloquence, which had exercised itself in the se- 
nate, and in public affairs, there was no longer any place. The 
change which was produced on eloquence, by the nature of the 
government, and the state of the public manners, is beautifully 
described in the Dialogue de Causis Corruptsc Eloquentioe, which 
is attributed, by some, to Tacitus, by others, to Quintilian. 
Luxury, effeminacy, and flattery, overwhelmed all. The forum, 
where so many great affairs had been transacted, was now be- 
come a desert. Private causes were still pleaded ; but the pub- 
lic was no longer interested ; nor any general attention drawn 
to what passed there : " Unus inter hsec, et alter, dicenti, assis- 
tit ; et res velut in solitudine agitur. Oratori autem clamore 

* 
* As his expressions are remarkably happy and beautiful, the passage here 

referred to deserves to be inserted. — " Je ne crains pas dire, que Demosthene 
me paroit superieur a Ciceron. Je proteste que personne n'admire pins Ciceron 
quejefais. II embellit tout ce qu'il touche. II fait honneur a la parole. II 
fait des mots ce qu'un autre n'en sauroit faire. 11 a je ne sais combien de sortes 
d'esprits. II est meme court, et vehement, toutes les fois qu'il veut l'etre ; contre 
Catiline, contre Verres, contre Antoine. Mais on remarque quelque parure 
dans son discours. • L'art y est merveilleux ; mais on l'entrevoit. L'oratenr, en 
pensant au salut de la republique, ne s'oublie pas, et ne se laisse pas oublier 
Demosthene paroit sortir de soi, et ne voir que la patrie. II ne cherche point le 
beau ; il le fait, sans y penser. II est au-dessus de radmiration. II se sert 
de la parole, comrae im homrne modeste de son habit, pour se couvrir. II tonne ; 
il foudroye. C'est un torrent qui entraine tout. On ne peut le critiquer, parce- 
qu'on est saisi. On pense aux choses qu'il dit, et non a ses paroles. On le 
perd de vue. On n'est occupe que de Philippe, qui envahit tout. Je suis 
charme de ces deux orateurs : mais j'avoue que je suis moins touche de l'art 
infini, et del a magnifique eloquence de Ciceron, que de la rapide simplicitc de 
Demosthene * 



33G LECTURE XXVI. 

plausuque opus est, et velut quodam theatro, qualia quotidie 
antiquis oratoribus contingebant ; cum tot ac tarn nobiles forum 
coarctarent ; cum clientele, et tribis, et municipiorum legationes, 
periclitantibus assisterent ; cum in plerisque judiciis crederet 
populus Romanus sua interesse quid judicaretur "* 

In the schools of the declaimers, the corruption of eloquence 
was completed. Imaginary and fantastic subjects, such as had 
no reference to real life, or business, were made the themes of 
declamation ; and all manner of false and affected ornaments 
were brought into vogue : " Pace vestra liceat dixisse," says 
Petronius Arbiter, to the declaimers of his time, " primi ornnem 
eloquentiam perdidistis. Levibus enim ac inanibus sonis ludi- 
bria quaedam excitando, effecistis ut corpus orationis enervare- 
tur atque caderet. Et ideo ego existimo adolescentulos in 
scholis stultissimos fieri, quia nihil ex iis, quae in usu habemus, 
aut audiunt, aut vident ; sed piratas cum catenis in litore stantes, 
et tyrannos edicta scribentes quibus imperent filiis ut patrum 
suoruin capita praecidant ; sed responsa, in pestilentia data, ut 
virgines ties aut plures immolentur ; sed mellitos verborum 
globulos, et omnia quasi papavere, et sesamo sparsa. Qui inter 
liaec nutriuntur, non magis sapere possunt, quam bene olere qui 
in culina habitant."-]- In the hands Of the Greek rhetoricians, 
the manly and sensible eloquence of their first noted speakers 
degenerated, as I formerly showed, into subtilty and sophistry ; 
in the hands of the Roman declaimers, it passed into the quaint 
and affected ; into point and antithesis. This corrupt manner 
begins to appear in the writings of Seneca ; and shows itself, 
also, in the famous panegyric of Pliny the younger on Trajon, 

• "The courts of judicature are, at present, so unfrequented, that the orator 
seems to stand alone, and talk to bare walls. But eloquence rejoices in the 
bursts of loud applause, and exults in a full audience; such as used to press 
round the ancient orators, when the forum stood crowded with nobles; when a 
numerous retinue of clients, when foreign ambassadors, when tribes, and whole 
cities, assisted at the debate; and when, in many trials, the Roman people un- 
derstood themselves to be concerned in the event." 

t " With your permission, I must be allowed to say, that you have been the 
first destroyers of all true eloquence. For by those mock subjects, on which you 
employ your empty and unmeaning compositions, you have enervated and over- 
thrown all that is manly and substantial in oratory. I cannot but conclude that 
the youth whom you educate, must be totally perverted in your schools, by hear- 
ing and seeing nothing which has any affinity to real life or human affairs ; but 
stories of pirates standing on the shore, provided with chains for loading their 
captives, and of tyrants issuing their edicts, by which children are. commanded 
to cut off the heads of their parents ; but responses given by oracles in the time 
of pestilence, that several virgins must be sacrificed ; but glittering ornament; 
of phrase, and a style highly spiced, if we may say so, with affected conceits. 
They who are educated in the midst of such studies, can no more acquire a 
good taste, than they can smell sweet who dwell perpetually in a kitchen." 



DECAY OF ROMAN ELOQUENCE. 337 

wliich may be considered as the last effort of Roman oratory. 
Though the author was a man of genius, yet it is deficient in na- 
ture and ease. We see, throughout the whole, a perpetual at- 
tempt to depart from the ordinary way of thinking, and to sup- 
port a forced elevation. 

In the decline of the Roman empire, the introduction of 
Christianity gave rise to a new species of eloquence, in the 
apologies, sermons, and pastoral writings of the fathers of the 
church. Among the Latin fathers, Lactantius and Minutius 
Felix are the most remarkable for purity of style; and, in a 
later age, the famous St. Augustine possesses a considerable 
share of sprightliness and strength. But none of the fathers 
afford any just models of eloquence. Their language, as soon 
as we descend to the third or fourth century, becomes harsh ; 
and they are, in general, infected with the taste of that age, a 
love of swoln and strained thoughts ; and of the play of words. 
Among the Greek fathers, the most distinguished, by far, for 
his oratorical merit, is St. Chrysostom. His language is pure ; 
his style highly figured. He is copious, smooth, and sometimes 
pathetic. But he retains, at the same time, much of that charac- 
ter which has been always attributed to the Asiatic eloquence, 
diffuse and redundant to a great degree, and often overwrought 
and tumid. He may be read, however, with advantage, for the 
eloquence of the pulpit, as being freer from false ornaments 
than the Latin fathers. 

As there is nothing more that occurs to me deserving par- 
ticular attention in the middle age, I pass now to the state of 
eloquence in modern times. Here it must be confessed, that in 
no European nation, public speaking has been considered as so 
great an object, or been cultivated with so much care, as in 
Greece or Rome. Its reputation has never been so high ; its 
effects have never been so considerable ;• nor has that high and 
sublime kind of it, which prevailed in those ancient states, been 
so much as aimed at : notwithstanding, too, that a new profes- 
sion has been established, which gives peculiar advantages to 
oratory, and affords it the noblest field ; I mean that of the 
church. The genius of the world seems, in this respect, to 
have undergone some alteration. The two countries where we 
might expect to find most of the spirit of eloquence, are France 
and Great Britain : France, on account of the distinguished turn 
of the nation towards all the liberal arts, and of the encourage- 
ment, which, for this century past, these arts have received from 
the public ; Great Britain, on account both of the public capacity 

Z 



838 LECTURE XXVI. 

and genius, and of the free government which it enjoys. Yet so 
it is, that in neither of those countries has the talent of public 
speaking risen near to the degree of its ancient splendour. 
While in other productions of genius, both in prose and in 
poetry, they have contended for the prize with Greece and 
Rome ; nay, in some compositions, may be thought to have sur- 
passed them : the names of Demosthenes and Cicero stand, at 
this day, unrivalled in fame ; and it would be held presumptuous 
and absurd, to pretend to place any modern whatever in the 
same, or even in a nearly equal rank. 

It seems particularly surprising, that Great Britain should 
not have made a more conspicuous figure in eloquence than it 
has hitherto attained ; when we consider the enlightened, and, 
at the same time, the free and bold genius of the country, which 
seems not a little to favour oratory ; and when we consider that 
of all the polite nations, it alone possesses a popular government, 
or admits into the legislature such numerous assemblies as can 
be supposed to lie under the dominion of eloquence.* Notwith- 
standing this advantage, it must be confessed, that, in most 
parts of eloquence, we are undoubtedly inferior, not only to the 
Greeks and Romans, by many degrees, but also in some 
respects to the French. We have philosophers, eminent and 
conspicuous, perhaps beyond any nation, in every branch of 
science. We have both taste and erudition, in a high degree. 
We have historians, we have poets of the greatest name ; but of 
orators or public speakers, how little have we to boast ! And 
where are the monuments of their genius to be found ? In 
every period we have had some who made a figure, by managing 
the debates in parliament ; but that figure was commonly owing 
to their wisdom, or their exjjerience in business, more than to 
their talents for oratory ; and unless, in some few instances, 
wherein the power of oratory has appeared, indeed, with much 
lustre, the art of parliamentary speaking rather obtained to 
several a temporary applause, than conferred upon any a lasting 
renown. At the bar, though, questionless, we have many able 
pleaders, yet few or none of their pleadings have been thought 
worthy to be transmitted to posterity ; or have commanded at- 
tention, any longer than the cause which was the subject of them 

* Mr. Hume, in his Essay on Eloquence, makes this observation, and illus- 
trates it with his usual elegance. He, indeed, supposes, that no satisfactory rea- 
sons can be given to account for the inferiority of modern to ancient eloquence. 
In this I differ from him, and shall endeavour, before the conclusion of this lec- 
ture, to point out some causes, to which, I think, it may, in a great measure, be 
ascribed in the three great scenes of public speaking. 



MODERN ELOQUENCE. 339 

interested the public ; while, in France, the pleadings of Patru, 
in the former age, and those of Cochin and D'Aguesseau, in 
later times, are read with pleasure, and are often quoted as ex- 
amples of eloquence by the French critics. In the same manner, 
in the pulpit, the British divines have distinguished themselves 
by the most accurate and rational compositions, which, perhaps, 
any nation can boast of. Many printed sermons we have, full 
of good sense, and of sound divinity and morality; but the elo- 
quence to be found in them, the power of persuasion, of interest- 
ing and engaging the heart, which is, or ought to be, the grep* 
object of the pulpit, is far from bearing a suitable proportion 
to the excellence of the matter. There are few arts, in my 
opinion, further from perfection, than that of preaching is among 
us ; the reasons of which, I shall afterwards have occasion to 
discuss ; in proof of the fact, it is sufficient to observe, that an 
English sermon, instead of being a persuasive animated oration, 
seldom rises beyond the strain of correct and dry reasoning. 
Whereas in the sermons of Bossuet, Massillon, Bourdaloue, and 
Flechier, among the French, we see a much higher species of 
eloquence aimed at, and in a great measure attained, than the 
British preachers have in view. 

In general, the characteristical difference between the state 
of eloquence in France and in Great Britain is, that the Frencn 
have adopted higher ideas both of pleasing and persuading by 
means of oratory, though sometimes in the execution they fail. 
In Great Britain, we have taken up eloquence on a lower key ; 
but in our execution, as was naturally to be expected, have been 
more correct. In France, the style of their orators is orna- 
mented with bolder figures ; and their discourse carried on with 
more amplification, more warmth and elevation. The composi- 
tion is often very beautiful ; but sometimes, also, too diffuse, and 
deficient in that strength and cogency which renders eloquence 
powerful : a defect owing, perhaps, in part to the genius of the 
people, which leads them to attend fully as much to ornament as 
to substance ; and, in part, to the nature of their government, 
which, by excluding public speaking from having much influence 
on the conduct of public affairs, deprives eloquence of its best 
opportunity for acquiring nerves and strength. Hence the pulpit 
is the principal field which is left for their eloquence. The 
members, too," of the French Academy, give harangues at their 
admission, in which genius often appears ; but labouring under 
the misfortune of having no subject to discourse upon, they run 

z 2 



340 LECTURE XXVI. 

commonly into flattery and panegyric, the most barren and in 
sipid of all topics. 

I observed before, that the Greeks and Romans aspired to a 
more sublime species of eloquence, than is aimed at by the 
moderns. Theirs was of the vehement and passionate kind, by 
which they endeavoured to inflame the minds of their hearers, 
and hurry their imagination away : and suitable to this vehe- 
mence of thought, was their vehemence of gesture and action ; 
the "■ supplosio pedis,"* the " percussio frontis et femoris,"-}- 
were, as we learn from Cicero's writings, usual gestures among 
them at the bar ; though now they would be reckoned extrava- 
gant any where, except upon the stage. Modern eloquence is 
much more cool and temperate ; and in Great Britain especially, 
has confined itself almost wholly to the argumentative and 
rational. It is much of that species which the ancient critics 
called the " tenuis" or " subtilis ;" which aims at convincing and 
instructing, rather than affecting the passions, and assumes a 
tone not much higher than common argument and discourse. 

Several reasons may be given, why modern eloquence has 
•been so limited and humble in its efforts. In the first place, I 
am of opinion, that this change must, in part, be ascribed to that 
correct turn of thinking, which has been so much studied in 
modern times. It can hardly be doubted, that, in many efforts 
of mere genius, the ancient Greeks and Romans excelled us ; 
but, on the other hand, that, in accuracy and closeness of rea- 
soning on many subjects, we have some advantage over them, 
ought, I think, to be admitted also. In proportion as the world 
has advanced, philosophy has made greater progress. A certain 
strictness of good sense has, in this island particularly, been 
cultivated, and introduced into every subject. Hence we are 
more on our guard against the flowers of elocution ; we are on 
the watch ; we are jealous of being deceived by oratory. Our 
public speakers are obliged to be more reserved than the an- 
cients, in their attempts to elevate the imagination, and warm 
the passions ; and, by the influence of prevailing taste, their own 
genius is sobered and chastened, perhaps, in too great a degree. 
It is likely too, I confess, that what we fondly ascribe to our 
correctness and good sense, is owing, in a great measure, to 
our phlegm and natural coldness. For the vivacity and sensi- 
bility of the Greeks and Romans, more especially of the former, 

• Vide de Clar. Orator. t Ibid. 



MODERN ELOQUENCE. 341 

seem to have been much greater than ours, and to have given 
them a higher relish of all the beauties of oratory. 

Besides these national considerations, we must, in the next 
place, attend to peculiar circumstances in the three great scenes 
of public speaking, which have proved disadvantageous to the 
growth of eloquence among us. Though the parliament of 
Great Britain be the noblest field which Europe, at this day, 
affords to a public speaker, yet eloquence has never been so 
powerful an instrument there, as it was in the popular assem- 
blies of Greece and Rome. Under some former reigns, the high 
hand of arbitrary power bore a violent sway ; and in latter times 
ministerial influence has generally prevailed. The power of 
speaking, though always considerable, yet has been often found 
too feeble to counterbalance either of these ; and, of course, has 
not been studied with so much zeal and fervour, as where its- 
effect on business was irresistible and certain. 

At the bar, our disadvantage, in comparison of the ancients; 
is great. Among them, the judges were generally numerous ; 
the laws were few and simple ; the decision of causes was left, 
in a great measure, to equity and the sense of mankind. Here 
was an ample field for what they termed judicial eloquence. But 
among the moderns, the case is quite altered. The system of law 
is become much more complicated. The knowledge of it is 
thereby rendered so laborious an attainment, as to be the chief 
object of a lawyer's education, and, in a manner, the study of his 
life. The art of speaking is but a secondary accomplishment, to 
which he can afford to devote much less of his time and labour. 
The bounds of eloquence, besides, are now much circumscribed 
at the bar ; and, except in a few cases, reduced to arguing from 
strict law, statute, or precedent ; by which means knowledge, 
much more than oratory, is become the principal requisite* 

With regard to the pulpit, it has certainly been a great dis- 
advantage, that the practice of reading sermons, instead of re- 
peating them from memory, has prevailed in England. This 
may, indeed, have introduced accuracy ; but it has done great 
prejudice to eloquence ; for a discourse read, is far inferior to an 
oration spoken. It leads to a different sort of composition, as 
well as of delivery ; and can never have an equal effect upon any 
audience. Another circumstance, too, has been unfortunate. 
The sectaries and fanatics, before the Restoration, adopted a 
warm, zealous, and popular manner of preaching ; and those 
who adhered to them in after-times, continued to distinguish 
themselves by somewhat of the same manner. The odium of 



342 LECTURE XXVII. 

these sects drove the established church from that warmth which 
they were judged to have carried too far, into the opposite ex- 
treme of a studied coolness, and composure of manner. Hence, 
from the art of persuasion which preaching ought always to be, 
it has passed, in England, into mere reasoning and instruction ; 
which not only has brought down the eloquence of the pulpit to 
a lower tone than it might justly assume ; but has produced this 
further effect, that, by accustoming the public ear to such cool 
and dispassionate discourses, it has tended to fashion other kinds 
of public speaking upon the same model. 

Thus I have given some view of the state of eloquence in 
modern times, and endeavoured to account for it. It has, as 
we have seen, fallen below that splendour which it maintained 
jn ancient ages ; and from being sublime and vehement, has 
come down to be temperate and cool. Yet, still, in that region 
which it occupies, it admits great scope ; and, to the defect of zeal 
and application, more than to the want of capacity and genius, 
we may ascribe its not having hitherto attained higher distinction. 
It is a field where there is much honour yet to be reaped. It is 
an instrument which may be employed for purposes of the highest 
importance. The ancient models may still, with much advantage, 
be set before us for imitation ; though in that imitation, we must 
doubtless have some regard to what modern taste and modern 
manners will bear ; of which I shall afterwards have occasion to 
sav more. 



LECTURE XXVTI. 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING— ELOQUENCE OF PO- 
PULAR ASSEMBLIES— EXTRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. 

After the preliminary views which have been given of 
the nature of eloquence in general, and of the state in which it 
has subsisted in different ages and countries, I am now to enter 
on the consideration of the different kinds of Public Speaking, 
the distinguishing characters of each, and the rules which relate 
to them. The ancients divided all orations into three kinds : 
the demonstrative, the deliberative, and the judicial. The scope 
of the demonstrative was to praise or to blame ; that of the deli- 
berative, to advise or to dissuade ; that of the judicial, to accuse 
or to defend. The chief subjects of demonstrative eloquence, 



PUBLIC SPEAKING. :un 

were panegyrics, invectives, gratulatory and funeral orations. 
The deliberative was employed in matters of public concern agi- 
tated in the senate, or before the assemblies of the people. The 
judicial is the same with the eloquence of the bar, employed in 
addressing judges, who have power to absolve or to condemn 
This division runs through all the ancient treatises on rhetoric ; 
and is followed by the moderns who copy them. It is a division 
not inartificial ; and comprehends most, or all of the matters 
which can be the subject of public discourse. It will, however, 
suit our purpose better, and be found, I imagine, more useful, to 
follow that division, which the train of modern speaking, natur- 
ally points out to us, taken from the three great scenes of elo- 
quence, popular assemblies, the bar, and the pulpit ; each of 
which has a distinct character, that particularly suits it. This 
division coincides in part with the ancient one. The eloquence 
of the bar is precisely the same with what the ancients called 
the judicial. The eloquence of popular assemblies, though 
mostly of what they term the deliberative species, yet admits 
also of the demonstrative. The eloquence of the pulpit is alto- 
gether of a distinct nature, and cannot be properly reduced un- 
der any of the heads of the ancient rhetoricians. 

To all the three, pulpit, bar, and popular assemblies, belong, 
in common, the rules, concerning the conduct of a discourse in 
all its parts. Of these rules I purpose afterwards to treat at 
large. But before proceeding to them, I intend to show, first, 
what is peculiar to each of these three kinds of oratory, in their 
spirit, character, or manner. For every species of public speak- 
ing has a manner or character peculiarly suited to it ; of which 
it is highly material to have a just idea, in order to direct the 
application of general rules. The eloquence of a lawyer is fun- 
damentally different from that of a divine, or a speaker in parli- 
ament: and to have a precise and proper idea of the distinguishing 
character which any kind of public speaking requires, is the 
foundation of what is called a just taste in that kind of 
speaking, 

Laying aside any question concerning the pre-eminence in 
point of rank, which is due to any one of the three kinds before 
mentioned, I shall begin with that which tends to throw most 
light upon the rest, viz. the eloquence of Popular Assemblies. 
The most august theatre for this kind of eloquence, to be found in 
any nation of Europe, is, beyond doubt, the parliament of Great 
Britain. In meetings, too, of less dignity, it may display itself. 
Wherever there is a popular court, or wherever any number of 



844 LtiCTUllE XXVII. 

men are assembled for debate or consultation, there, In different 
forms, this species of eloquence may take place. 

Its object is, or ought always to be, persuasion. There 
must be some end proposed ; some point, most commonly of 
public utility or good, in favour of which we seek to determine 
the hearers. Now, in all attempts to persuade .men, we must 
proceed upon this principle, that it is necessary to convince their 
understanding. Nothing can be more erroneous, than to im- 
agine, that, because speeches to popular assemblies admit more 
of a declamatory style than some other discourses, they therefore 
stand less in need of being supported by sound reasoning. 
When modelled upon this false idea, they may have the show, 
but never can produce the effect, of real eloquence. Even the 
show of eloquence which they make, will please only the trifling 
and superficial. For, with all tolerable judges, indeed almost 
with all men, mere declamation soon becomes insipid. Of what- 
ever rank the hearers be, a speaker is never to presume, that 
by a frothy and ostentatious harangue, without solid sense and 
argument, he can either make impression on them, or acquire 
fame to himself. It is at least, a dangerous experiment ; for, 
where such an artifice succeeds once, it will fail ten times. 
Even the common people are better judges of argument and good 
sense than we sometimes think them ; and upon any question of 
business, a plain man, who speaks to the point, without art, will 
generally prevail over the most artful speaker who deals in 
flowers and ornament, rather than in reasoning. Much more, 
when public speakers address themselves to any assembly where 
there are persons of education and improved understanding, they 
ought to be -careful not to trifle with their hearers. 

Let it be ever kept in view , that the foundation of all that 
can be called eloquence, is good sense and solid thought. As 
popular as the orations of Demosthenes were, spoken to all the 
citizens of Athens, every one who looks into them must see 
how fraught they are with argument ; and how important it ap- 
peared to him, to convince the understanding, in order to per- 
suade, or to work on the principles of action. Hence their in- 
fluence in his own time ; hence their fame at this day. Such a 
pattern as this, public speakers ought to set before them for 
imitation, rather than follow the track of those loose and frothy 
declaimers, who have brought discredit on eloquence. Let it 
be their first study, in addressing any popular assembly, to be 
previously masters of the business on which they are to speak ; 
to be well provided with matter and argument, and to rest upon 






ELOQUENCE OF POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 345 

these the chief stress. This will always give to their discourse 
an air of manliness and strength, which is a powerful instru- 
ment of persuasion. Ornament, if they have genius for it, will 
follow of course ; at any rate it demands only their secondary 
study : " Cura sit verborum ; solicitudo rerum :" — " To your ex- 
pression be attentive, but about your matter be solicitous," is an 
advice of Quintilian which cannot be too often recollected by all 
who study oratory. 

In the next place, in order to be persuasive speakers in a 
popular assembly, it is, in my opinion, a capital rule, that we 
be ourselves persuaded of whatever we recommend to others, 
Never, when it can be avoided, ought we to espouse any side 
of the argument, but what we believe to be the true and the 
right one. Seldom or never will a man be eloquent, but when 
he is in earnest, and uttering his own sentiments. They are 
only the " verse voces ab imo pectore," the unassumed lan- 
guage of the heart or head, that carry the force of conviction. 
In a former lecture, when entering on this subject, I observed, 
that all high eloquence must be the offspring of passion, or warm 
emotion. It is this which makes every man persuasive ; and 
gives a force to his genius, which it possesses at no other time. 
Under what disadvantage then is he placed, who, not feeling 
what he utters, must counterfeit a warmth to which he is a 
stranger ? 

I know, that young people, on purpose to train themselves 
to the art of speaking, imagine it useful to adopt that side of 
the question under debate, which to themselves, appears the 
weakest, and to try what figure they can make upon it. Butj 
I am afraid, this is not the most improving education for public 
speaking ; and that it tends to form them to a habit of flimsy 
and trivial discourse. Such a liberty they should, at no time, 
allow themselves, unless in meetings where no real business is 
carried on, but where declamation and improvement of speech 
is the sole aim. Nor even in such meetings would I recom- 
mend it as the most useful exercise. They will improve them- 
selves to more advantage, and acquit themselves with more 
honour, by choosing always that side of the debate to which, 
in their own judgment, they are most inclined, and supporting 
it by what seems to themselves most solid and persuasive. They 
will acquire the habit of reasoning closely, and expressing them- 
selves with warmth and force, much more when they are ad- 
hering to their own sentiments, than when they are speaking in 
contradiction to them. In assemblies where any real business 



31G LECTUUE XXVII. 

is carried on, whether that business be of much importance 
or not, it is always of dangerous consequence for young prac- 
titioners to make trial of this sort of play of speech. It 
may fix an imputation on their characters before they are 
aware ; and what they intended merely as amusement, may be 
turned to the discredit either of their principles or their under- 
standing. 

Debate, in popular courts, seldom allows the speaker that 
full and accurate preparation beforehand, which the pulpit 
always, and the bar sometimes admits. The arguments must 
be suited to the course which the debate takes ; and as no man 
can exactly foresee this, one who trusts to a set speech, com- 
posed in his closet, will, on many occasions, be thrown out of 
the ground which he had taken. He will find it pre-occupied 
by others, or his reasonings superseded by some new turn of the 
business ; and, if he ventures to use his prepared speech, it will 
be frequently at the hazard of making an awkward figure. 
There is a general prejudice with us, and not wholly an unjust 
one, against set speeches in public meetings. The only occa- 
sion, when they have any propriety, is, at the opening of a de- 
bate, when the speaker has it in his power to choose his field. 
But as the debate advances, and parties warm, discourses of this 
kind become more unsuitable. They want the native air ; the 
appearance of being suggested by the business that is going on ; 
study and ostentation are apt to be visible ; and, of course, 
though applauded as elegant, they are seldom so persuasive as 
more free and unconstrained discourses. 

This, however, does not by any means conclude against 
premeditation of what we are to say ; the neglect of which, and 
the trusting wholly to extemporaneous efforts, will unavoidably 
produce the habit of speaking in a loose and undigested manner. 
But the premeditation which is of most advantage, in the case 
which we now consider, is of the subject or argument in general, 
rather than of nice composition in any particular branch of it. 
With regard to the matter, we cannot be too accurate in our 
preparation, so as to be fully masters of the business under con- 
sideration ; but, with regard to words and expression, it is very 
possible so far to overdo, as to render our speech stiff and 
precise. Indeed, till once persons acquire that firmness, that 
presence of mind, and command of expression, in a public meet- 
ing, which nothing but habit and practice can bestow, it may 
be proper for a young speaker to commit to memory the whole 
of what he is to say. But, after some performances of this kind 



ELOQUENCE OF POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 347 

have given him boldness, he will find it the better method not to 
confine himself so strictly ; but only to write, beforehand, some 
sentences with which he intends to set out, in order to put him- 
self fairly in the train ; and, for the rest, to set down short notes 
of the topics, or principal thoughts upon which he is to insist, 
in their order, leaving the words to be suggested by the warmth 
of discourse. Such short notes of the substance of the dis- 
course will be found of considerable service to those especi- 
cially who are beginning to speak in public. They will accus- 
tom them to some degree of accuracy, which, if they speak fre- 
quently, they are in danger too soon of losing. They will even 
accustom them to think more closely on the subject in question ; 
and will assist them greatly in arranging their thoughts with 
method and order. 

This leads me next to observe, that in all kinds of public 
speaking, nothing is of greater consequence than a proper and 
clear method. I mean not that formal method of laying down 
heads and subdivisions, which is commonly practised in the 
pulpit ; and which, in popular assemblies, unless the speaker bo 
a man of great authority and character, and the subject of great 
importance, and the preparation too very accurate, is rather in 
hazard of disgusting the hearers ; such an introduction is pre- 
senting always the melancholy prospect of a long discourse. 
But though the method be not laid down in form, no discourse 
of any length should be without method ; that is, every thing 
should be found in its proper place. Every one who speaks, 
will find it of the greatest advantage to himself to have pre- 
viously arranged his thoughts, and classed under proper heads, 
in his own mind, what he is to deliver. This will assist his 
memory, and carry him through his discourse, without that con- 
fusion to which one is every moment subject, who has fixed no 
distinct plan of what he is to say. And with respect to the 
hearers, order in discourse is absolutely necessary for making 
any proper impression. It adds both force and light to what is 
said. It makes them accompany the speaker easily and readily, 
as he goes along ; and makes them feel the full effect of every 
argument which he employs. Few things, therefore, deserve 
more to be attended to than distinct arrangement ; for eloquence 
however great, can never produce entire conviction without it. 
Of the rules of method, and the proper distribution of the seve- 
parts of a discourse, I am hereafter to treat. 

Let us now consider the style and expression suited to the 
eloquence of popular assemblies. Beyond doubt these give 



348 LECTURE XXV IT. 

6Cope for the most animated manner of public spealdng. The 
very aspect of a large assembly, engaged in some debate ot 
moment, and attentive to the discourse of one man, is sufficient 
to inspire that man with such elevation and warmth, as both 
gives rise to strong impressions, and gives them propriety. 
Passion easily rises in a great assembly, where the movements 
are communicated by mutual sympathy between the orator and 
the audience. Those bold figures, of which I treated formerly 
as the native language of passion, have then their proper place. 
That ardour of speech, that vehemence and glow of sentiment, 
which arise from a mind animated and inspired by some great 
and public object, form the peculiar characteristics of popular 
eloquence, in its highest degree of perfection. 

The liberty, however, which we are now giving of the strong 
and passionate manner to this kind of oratory, must be always 
understood with certain limitations and restraints, which it will 
be necessary to point out distinctly, in order to guard against 
dangerous mistakes on this subject. 

A.s, first, the warmth which we express must be suited to the 
occasion and the subject : for nothing can be more preposterous, 
than an attempt to introduce great vehemence into a subject, 
which is either of slight importance, or which, by its nature, 
requires to be treated of calmly. A temperate tone of speech, 
is that for which there is most frequent occasion ; and he who is, 
on every subject,, passionate and vehement, will be considered as 
a blusterer, and meet with little regard. 

In the second place, we must take care never to counterfeit 
warmth without feeling it. This always betrays persons into 
an unnatural manner, which exposes them to ridicule. For, as I 
have often suggested, to support the appearance without the 
the real feeling of passion, is one of the most difficult things in 
nature. The disguise can almost never be so perfect, as not t<? 
be discovered. The heart can only answer to the heart. The 
great rule here, as indeed in every other case, is, to follow nature ' 
never to attempt a strain of eloquence which is not seconded by 
our own genius. One may be a speaker, both of much reputation 
and much influence, in the calm argumentative manner. To at- 
tain the pathetic, and the sublime of oratory, requires those 
strong sensibilities of mind, and that high power of expression, 
which are given to few. 

In the third place, even when the subject justifies the vehe- 
ment manner, and when genius prompts it ; when warmth is 
felt, not counterfeited; we must, still, set a guard on ourselves, 



ELOQUENCE OF POlMir.VR ASSEMBLIES. 349 

not to allow impetuosity to transport us too far. Without emo- 
tion in the speaker, eloquence, as was before observed, will ne- 
ver produce its highest effects ; but at the same time, if the 
speaker lose command of himself, he will soon lose command of 
his audience too. He must never kindle too soon : he must begin 
with moderation ; and study to carry his hearers along with him. 
as he warms in the progress of his discourse. For, if he runs 
before in the course of passion, and leaves them behind ; if they 
are not tuned, if we may speak so, in unison to him, the discord 
will presently be felt, and be very grating. Let a speaker have 
ever so good reason to be animated and fired by his subject, it is 
always expected of him, that the awe and regard due to his 
audience should lay a decent restraint upon his warmth, 
and prevent it from carrying him beyond certain bounds. 
If, when most heated by the subject, he can be so far master 
of himself as to preserve close attention to argument, and 
even to some degree of correct expression, this self-command, 
this exertion of reason, in the midst of passion, has a wonder- 
ful effect both to please and to persuade. It is indeed the mas- 
ter-piece, the highest attainment of eloquence ; uniting the 
strength of reason, with the vehemence of passion ; affording all 
the advantages of passion for the purpose of persuasion, without 
the confusion, and disorder which are apt to accompany it. 

In the fourth place ; in the highest and most animated strain 
of popular speaking, we must always preserve regard to what 
the public ear will bear. This direction I give, in order to 
guard against an injudicious imitation of ancient orators, who, 
both in their pronunciation and gesture, and in their figures of 
expression, used a bolder manner than what the greater cool- 
ness of modern taste will readily suffer. This may, perhaps, as 
I formerly observed, be a disadvantage to modern eloquence. 
It is no reason why we should be too severe in checking the 
impulse of genius, and continue always creeping on the ground ; 
but it is a reason, however, why we should avoid carrying the 
tone of declamation to a height that would now be reckoned ex- 
travagant. Demosthenes, to justify the unsuccessful reaction 
of Cheronsea, calls up the manes of those heroes who fell in the 
battle of Marathon and Platsea, and swears by them, that their 
fellow citizens had done well in their endeavours to support, the 
same cause. Cicero, in his Oration for Milo, implores and 
obtests the Alban hills and groves, and makes a long address 
to them : and both passages, in these orators, have a fine 



350 LECTURE XXVII 

effect.* But how few modern orators could venture on such 
apostrophes ; and what a power of genius would it require to 
give such figures now their proper grace, or make them produce 
a due effect upon the hearers ? 

In the fifth and last place ; in all kinds of public speaking, 
but especially in popular assemblies, it is a capital rule to at- 
tend to all the decorums of time, place, and character. No 
warmth of eloquence can atone for the neglect of these. That 
vehemence which is becoming in a person of character and au- 
thority, may be unsuitable to the modesty expected from a young 
speaker. That sportive and witty manner which may suit one 
subject and one assembly, is altogether out of place in a grave 
cause and a solemn meeting. " Caput artis est," says Quintilian, 
" decere." " The first principle of art, is to observe decorum." 
No one should ever rise to speak in public, without forming to 
himself a just and strict idea of what suits his own age and 
character ; what suits the subject, the hearers, the place, the oc- 
casion ; and adjusting the whole train and manner of his speak- 
ing on this idea. All the ancients insist much on this. Consult 
the first chapter of the eleventh book of Quintilian, which is 
employed wholly on this point, and is full of good sense. Ci- 
cero's admonitions in his Orator ad Brutum, I shall give in his 
own words, which should never be forgotten by any who speak 
in public. " Est eloquentise, sicut reliquarum rerum, fundamen- 
tum, sapientia ; ut enim in vita, sic in oratione, nihil est difficilius 
quam, quid deceat, videre ; hujus ignoratione ssepissime pecca- 
tur ; non enim omnis fortuna, non omnis auctoritas, non omnis 
aetas, nee vero locus, aut tempus, aut auditor omnis, eodem aut 
verborum genere tractandus est, aut sententiarum. Semperque 
in omni parte orationis, ut vitse, quid deceat, est consideran- 
dum ; quod et in re, de qua agitur, positum est, et in personis et 



* The passage in Cicero is very beautiful, and adorned with the highest 
colouring of his eloquence. " Non est humano consilio, ne mediocri quidem, 
judices, deorum immortalium cura, res ilia perfecta. Religiones, niehercule 
ipsse, que illam belluam cadere viderunt, commosse se videntur, et jus in 
illo suum retinuisse. Vos enim jam, Albani tumuli atque luci, vos, inquam, 
imploro atque testor, vosque Albanorum obrutae araa, sacrorum populi Romani 
sociae et Eequales, quas ille, praaceps amentia, cassis prostratisque, sanctissimis 
lucis, substructionum insanis molibus oppresserat : vestrse turn arae, vestrae 
religiones viguerunt, vestra vis valuit, quam ille omni scelere polluerat, tuque 
ex tuo edito monte, Latiaris sancte Jupiter, cujus ille lacus, neinora, finesque 
saepe omni nefario stupro, et scelere macularat, aliquando ad eum puniendum 
oculos apcruisti : vobis illae, vobis vestro in conspeotu serae, sed justas tamen, 
et debitae poena? solutae sunt." c. 31. 



ELOQUENCE OF POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 351 

eorum qui dicunt, et eorum qui audiunt."* — So much for the 
considerations that require to be attended to, with respect to 
the vehemence and warmth which is allowed in popular elo- 
quence. 

The current of style should in general be full, free, and na- 
tural. Quaint and artificial expressions are out of place here • 
and always derogate from persuasion. It is a strong and manly 
style which should chiefly be studied ; and metaphorical language, 
when properly introduced, produces often a happy effect. When 
the metaphors are warm, glowing, and descriptive, some inaccu- 
racy in. them will be overlooked, which, in a written composition, 
would be remarked and censured. Amidst the torrent of decla- 
mation, the strength of the figure makes impression ; the inac- 
curacy of it escapes. 

With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness, 
suited to popular eloquence, it is not easy to fix any exact bounds. 
I know that it is common to recommend a diffuse manner as the 
most proper. I am inclined, however, to think, that there is 
danger of erring in this respect ; and that, by indulging too much 
in the diffuse style, public speakers often lose more in point of 
strength, than they gain by the fulness of their illustration. 
There is no doubt, that in speaking to a multitude, we must 
not speak in sentences and apophthegms ; care must be ta- 
ken to explain and to inculcate ; but this care may be, and 
frequently is carried too far. We ought always to remember, 
that how much soever we may be pleased with hearing ourselves 
speak, every audience is very ready to be tired ; and, the mo- 
ment they begin to be tired, all our eloquence goes for nothing. 
A loose and verbose manner never fails to create disgust ; and, 
on most occasions, we had better run the risk of saying too little, 
than too much. Better place our thought in one strong point of 
view, and rest it there, than by turning it into every light, and 
pouring forth a profusion of words upon it, exhaust the attention 
of our hearers, and leave them flat and languid. 

Of pronunciation and delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart 

* " Good sense is the foundation of eloquence, as it is of all other things that 
are valuable. It happens in oratory exactly as it does in life, that frequently 
nothing is more difficult than to discern what is proper and becoming. In con- 
sequence of mistaking this, the grossest faults are often committed. For to the 
different degrees of rank, fortune, and age among men, to all the varieties of 
time, place, and auditory, the same style of language, and the same strain of 
thought, cannot agree. In every part of a discourse, just as in every part of 
life, we must attend to what is suitable and decent ; whether that be determined 
by the nature of the subject of which we treat, or by the characters of those 
who speak, or of those who hear." 

* 



352 LECTURE XX VII. 

At present it is sufficient to observe, that in speaking to mixed as- 
semblies, the best manner of delivery is the firm and the deter- 
mined. An arrogant arid overbearing manner is indeed always 
disagreeable ; and the least appearance of it ought to be shunned : 
but there is a certain decisive tone, which may be assumed even 
by a modest man, who is thoroughly persuaded of the sen- 
timents he utters ; and which is best calculated for making a 
general impression. A feeble and hesitating manner bespeaks 
always some distrust of a man's own opinion, which is by no 
means, a favourable circumstance for his inducing others to 
embrace it. 

These are the chief thoughts which have occurred to me from 
reflection and observation, concerning the peculiar distinguishing 
characters of the eloquence proper for popular assemblies. The 
sum of what has been said, is this : the end of popular speaking 
is persuasion ; and this must be founded on conviction. Argu- 
ment and reasoning must be the basis, if we would be speakers 
of business, and not mere declaimers. We should be engaged 
in earnest on the side which we espouse ; and utter, as much as 
possible, our own, and not counterfeited sentiments. The pre- 
meditation should be of things, rather than of words. Clear 
order and method should be studied : the manner and expression 
warm and animated : though still, in the midst of that vehemence, 
which may at times be suitable, carried on under the proper re- 
straints which regard to the audience, and to the docorum of 
character, ought to lay on every public speaker : the style free 
and easy ; strong and descriptive, rather than diffuse ; and the 
delivery determined and firm. To conclude this head, let every 
orator remember, that the impression made by fine and artful 
speaking is momentary; that made by argument and good sense, 
is solid and lasting. 

I shall now, that I may afford an exemplification of that 
species of oratory of which I have been treating, insert some ex- 
tracts from Demosthenes. Even under the great disadvantage 
of an English translation, they will exhibit a small specimen of 
that vigorous and spirited eloquence wlwch I have so often praised. 
I shall take my extracts mostly from the Philippics, and Olynthi- 
acs, which were entirely popular orations spoken to the genera! 
convention of the citizens of Athens : and, as the subject of both 
the Philippics, and the Olynthiacs, is the same, I shall not con- 
fine myself to one oration, but shall join together passages taken 
from two or three of them ; such as may show his general strain 
of speaking, on some of the chief branches of the subject. The 






ELOQUENCE OF POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 35a 

subject in general is, to rouse the Athenians to guard against 
Philip of Macedon, whose growing power and crafty policy 
had by that time endangered, and soon after overwhelmed, the 
liberties of Greece. The Athenians began to be alarmed ; but 
their deliberations were slow, and their measures feeble ; several 
of their favourite orators having been gained by Philip's bribes 
to favour his cause. In this critical conjunction of affairs De- 
mosthenes arose. In the following manner he begins his first 
Philippic ; which, like the exordiums of all his orations, is sim- 
ple and artless.* 

" Had we been convened, Athenians ! on some new subject of 
debate, I had waited till most of your usual counsellors had de- 
clared their opinions. If I had approved of what was proposed 
by them, I should have continued silent ; if not, I should then 
have attempted to speak my sentiments. But since those very 
points on which these speakers have oftentimes been heard 
already, are at this time to be considered ; though I have arisen 
first, I presume I may expect your pardon ; for if they on former 
occasions had advised the proper measures, you would not have 
found it needful to consult at present. 

" First then, Athenians ! however wretched the situation of 
our affairs at present seems, it must not by any means be thought 
desperate. What I am now going to advance may possibly ap- 
pear a paradox ; yet it is a certain truth, that our past misfor- 
tunes afford a circumstance most favourable to our future hopes.-f 
And what is that ? even that our present difficulties are owing 
entirely to our total indolence, and utter disregard of our own 
interest. For were we thus situated, in spite of every effort 
which our duty demanded, then indeed we might regard our 
fortunes as absolutely desperate. But now, Philip hath only 
conquered your supineness and inactivity ; the state he hath not 
conquered. You cannot be said to be defeated ; your force hath 
never been exerted. 

"If there is a man in this assembly who thinks that we must 
find a formidable enemy in Philip, while he views on one hand 
the numerous armies which surround him, and on the other, the 
weakness of our state, despoiled of so much of its dominions, I 
cannot deny that he thinks justly. Yet let him reflect on this 
there was a time, Athenians ! when we possessed Pydna, Potidaea, 

* In the following extracts, Leland's translation is mostly followed, 
t This thought is only hinted at in the first Philippic, but brought out raor<* 
fully in the third ; as the same thoughts, occasioned by similar situation* of 
affairs, sometimes occur in the different orations on this subject. 

2 A 



$54 LECTURE XXVII. 

and Methone, and all that country round : v/hen many of the 
states, now subjected to him, were free and independent, and 
more inclined to our alliance than to his. If Philip, at that 
time weak in himself, and without allies, had desponded of 
success against you, he would never have engaged in those 
enterprises which are now crowned with success, nor could 
have raised himself to that pitch of grandeur at which you now 
behold him. But he knew well that the strongest places are 
only prizes laid between the combatants, and ready for the 
conqueror. He knew that the dominions of the absent devolve 
naturally to those who are in the field ; the possessions of the 
supine, to the active and intrepid. Animated by these sen- 
timents, he overturns whole nations. He either rules universally 
as a conqueror, or governs as a protector. For mankind 
naturally seek confederacy with such as they see resolved and 
preparing not to be wanting to themselves. 

" If you, my countrymen ! will now at length be persuaded 
to entertain the like sentiments ; if each of you will be disposed 
to approve himself an useful citizen, to the utmost that his sta- 
tion and abilities enable him ; if the rich will be ready to con- 
tribute, and the young to take the field ; in one word, if you will 
be yourselves, and banish these vain hopes which every single 
person entertains, that the active part of public business may lie 
upon others, and he remain at his ease ; you may then, by the 
assistance of the gods, recall those opportunities which your su- 
pineness hath neglected, regain your dominions, and chastise 
the insolence of this man. 

" But when, O my countrymen ! will you begin to exert your 
vigour ? Do you wait till roused by some dire event ? till forced 
by some necessity? What then are we to think of our present 
condition ? To free men, the disgrace attending on misconduct, 
is, in my opinion, the most urgent necessity. Or say, is it your 
sole ambition to wander through the public places, each inquiring 
of the other, ' What new advices ?' Can any thing be more 
new, than that a man of Macedon should conquer the Athenians, 
and give law to Greece ? ' Is Philip dead ?' ' No — but he is 
sick.' Pray what is it to you whether Philip is sick or not ? 
Supposing he should die, you would raise up another Philip, if 
you continue thus regardless of your interest. 

" Many, I know, delight more in nothing than in circulating 
all the rumours they hear as articles of intelligence. Some cry, 
Philip hath joined with the Lacedaemonians, and they are con- 
certing the destruction of Thebes. Others assure us, he hath 






EXTRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. 355 

sent an embassy to the king of Persia ; others, that he is forti- 
fying places in Ulyria. Thus we all go about framing our seve- 
ral tales. I do believe, indeed, Athenians ! that he is intoxicated 
with his greatness, and does entertain his imagination with many 
such visionary projects, as he sees no power rising to oppose 
him. But I cannot be persuaded that he hath so taken his mea- 
sures that the weakest amongst us (for the weakest they are 
who spread such rumours) know what he is next to do. Let us 
disregard these tales. Let us only be persuaded of thvs, that lie 
is our enemy ; that we have long been subject to his insolence ; 
that whatever we expected to have been done for us by others, 
hath turned against us ; that all the resource left is in ourselves ; 
and that if we are not inclined to carry our arms abroad, we 
shall be forced to engage him at home. Let us be persuaded 
of these things, and then we shall come to a proper determina- 
tion, and be no longer guided by rumours. We need not 
be solicitous to know what particular events are to happen. 
We may be well assured that nothing good can happen, unless 
we give due attention to our own affairs, and act as becomes 
Athenians. 

" Were it a point generally acknowledged,* that Philip is 
now at actual war with the state, the only thing under delibera- 
tion would then be, how to oppose him with most safety. But 
since there are persons so strangely infatuated, that although he 
has already possessed himself of a considerable part of our do- 
minions ; although he is still extending his conquests ; although 
all Greece has suffered by his injustice ; yet they can hear it re- 
peated in this assembly, that it is some of us who seek to em- 
broil the state in war : this suggestion must first be guarded 
against. I readily admit, that were it in our power to determine 
whether we should be at peace or war, peace, if it depended on 
our option, is most desirable to be embraced. But if the other 
party hath drawn the sword, and gathered his armies round 
him ; if he amuses us with the name of peace, while, in fact, he 
is proceeding to the greatest hostilities ; what is left for us but 
to oppose him ? If any man takes that for a peace, which is 
only a preparation for his leading his forces directly upon us, 
after his other conquests, I hold that man's mind to be dis- 
ordered. At least, it is only our conduct towards Philip, not 
Philip's conduct towards us, that is to be termed a peace; and 
this is the peace for which Philip's treasures are expended, for 
which his gold is so liberally scattered among our venal orators, 

• Phil. iii. 
2 A 2 



356 LECTURE XXVII. 

that he may be at liberty to carry on the war against you, while 
you make no war on him. 

* Heavens ! is there any man of a right mind who would 
judge of peace or war by words, and not by actions ? is there 
any man so weak as to imagine that it is for the sake of those 
paltry villages of Thrace, Drongylus, and Cabyle, and Mastira, 
that Philip is now braving the utmost dangers, and enduring 
the severity of toils and seasons ; and that he has no designs 
upon the arsenals, and the navies, and the silver mines of 
Athens ? or that he will take up his winter quarters among the 
cells and dungeons of Thrace, and leave you to enjoy all your 
revenues in peace ? But you wait, perhaps, till he declare war 
against you — He will never do so — no, though he were at your 
gates. He will still be assuring you that he is not at war. Such 
were his professions to the people of Oreum, when his forces 
were in the heart of their country ; such his professions to those 
of Pheree, until the moment he attacked their walls : and thus lie 
amused the Olynthians till he came within a few miles of them, 
and then he sent them a message, that either they must quit their 
city, or he his kingdom. He would indeed be the absurdest of 
mankind, if, while you suffer his outrages to pass unnoticed, and 
are wholly engaged in accusing and prosecuting one another, 
he should, by declaring war, put an end to your private contests, 
warn you to direct all your zeal against him, and deprive his 
pensioners of their most specious pretence for suspending your 
resolutions, that of his not being at war with the state. I, for 
my part, hold and declare, that by his attack of the Megaraeans, 
by his attempts upon the liberty of Euboea, by his late incur- 
sions into Thrace, by his practices in Peloponnesus, Philip has 
violated the treaty ; he is in a state of hostility with you ; unless 
you shall affirm, that he who prepares to besiege a city, is still 
at peace, until the walls be actually invested. The man whose 
designs, whose whole conduct tends to reduce me to subjection, 
that man is at war with me, though not. a blow hath yet been 
given, nor a sword drawn. 

" All Greece, all the barbarian world, is too narrow for this 
man's ambition. And, though we Greeks see and hear all this, 
we send no embassies to each other ; we express no resentment ; 
but into such wretchedness are we sunk, that even to this day 
we neglect what our interest and duty demand. Without en- 
gaging in associations, or forming confederacies, we look with 
unconcern upon Philip's growing power ; each fondly imagining, 
that the time in which another is destroyed, is so much time 



EXTRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. 357 

gained to him ; although no man can be ignorant, that, like tho 
regular periodic return of a fever, he is coming upon those who 
flunk themselves the most remote from danger. — And what is 
the cause of our present passive disposition ? For some cause 
sure there must be, why the Greeks, who have been so zealous 
heretofore in defence of liberty, are now so prone to slavery. 
The cause, Athenians ! is, that a principle, which was formerly 
fixed in the minds of all, now exists no more ; a principle which 
conquered the opulence of Persia ; maintained the freedom of 
Greece, and triumphed over the powers of sea and land. That 
principle was, an unanimous abhorrence of all those who ac- 
cepted bribes from princes, that were enemies to the liberties of 
Greece. To be convicted of bribery, was then a crime altogether 
unpardonable. Neither orators, nor generals, would then sell 
for gold the favourable conjunctures which fortune put into their 
hands. No gold could impair our firm concord at home, our 
hatred and diffidence of tyrants and barbarians. But now all 
things are exposed to sale, as in a public market. Corruption 
has introduced such manners, as have proved the bane and 
destruction of our country. Is a man known to have received 
foreign money? People envy him. Does he own it? They 
laugh. Is he convicted in form ? They forgive him : so univer- 
sally has this contagion diffused itself among us. 

" If there be any who, though not carried away by bribes, 
yet are struck with terror, as if Philip was something more than 
human, they may see upon a little consideration that he hath 
exhausted all those artifices to which he owes his present eleva- 
tion ; and that his affairs are now ready to decline. For I my- 
self, Athenians ! should think Philip really to be dreaded, if I 
saw him raised by honourable means. — When forces join in 
harmony and affection, and one common interest unites con- 
federating powers, then they share the toils with alacrity, and 
endure distresses with perseverance. But when extravagant 
ambition and lawless power, as in the case of Philip, have ag- 
grandized a single person, the first pretence, the slightest acci- 
dent, overthrows him, and dashes his greatness to the ground. 
For it is not possible, Athenians ! it is not possible, to found a 
lasting power upon injustice, perjury, and treachery. These 
may perhaps succeed for once, and borrow for a while, from 
hope, a gay and flourishing appearance. But time betrays their 
weakness, and they fall of themselves to ruin. For as, in struc- 
tures of every kind, the lower parts should have the firmest 
stability, so the grounds and principles of great enterpris°s 



358 LECTURE XXVI I. 

should be justice and truth. But this solid foundation is want- 
ing to all the enterprises of Philip. 

* Hence, among his confederates, there are many who hate, 
who distrust, who envy him. If you will exert yourselves, as 
your honour and your interest require, you will not only dis- 
cover the weakness and insincerity of his confederates, but the 
ruinous condition also of his own kingdom. For you are not 
to imagine, that the inclinations of his subjects are the same 
with those of their prince. He thirsts for glory ; but they have 
no part in this ambition. Harassed by those various excursions 
he is ever making, they groan under perpetual calamity ; torn 
from their business and their families ; and beholding commerce 
excluded from their coasts. All those glaring exploits, which 
have given him his apparent greatness, have wasted his natural 
strength, his own kingdom, and rendered it much weaker than 
it originally was, Besides, his profligacy and baseness, and 
those troops of buffoons, and dissolute persons, whom he 
caresses and keeps constantly about him, are, to men of just 
discernment, great indications of the weakness of his mind. 
At present, his successes cast a shade over these things ; but let 
his arms meet with the least disgrace, his feebleness will appear, 
and his character be exposed. For, as in our bodies, while a 
man is in apparent health, the effect of some inward debility, 
which has been growing upon him, may for a time be concealed ; 
but, as soon as it comes the length of disease, all his secret in- 
firmities show themselves, in whatever part of his frame the 
disorder is lodged : so, in states and monarchies, while they 
carry on a war abroad, many defects escape the general eye ; 
but, as soon as war reaches their own territory, their infirmities 
come forth to general observation. 

" Fortune has great influence in all human affairs ; but I, for 
my part, should prefer the fortune of Athens, with the least de- 
gree of vigour in asserting your cause, to this man's fortune. 
For we have many better reasons to depend upon the favour of 
heaven than this man. But, indeed, he who will not exert his 
own strength, hath no title to depend either on his friends, or 
on the gods. Is it at all surprising that he, who is himself ever 
amidst the labours and dangers of the field ; who is every where ; 
whom no opportunity escapes ; to whom no season is unfavour- 
able ; should be superior to you who are wholly engaged iu con 
triving delays, and framing decrees, and inquiring alter news f 
The contrary would be much more surprising, if we, who have 
never hitherto acted as became a state engaged in war, should 






EXTRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. 359 

conquer one who acts, in every instance, with indefatigable vigi- 
lance. It is this, Athenians ! it is this which gives him all his 
advantage against you. Philip, constantly surrounded by his 
troops, and perpetually engaged in projecting his designs, can, 
in a moment, strike the blow where he pleases. But we, when 
any accident alarms us, first appoint our trierarchs ; then we 
allow them to exchange by substitution ; then the supplies are 
considered ; next, we resolve to man our fleet with strangers 
and foreigners ; then find it necessary to supply their place our- 
selves. In the midst of these delays, what we are failing to de- 
fend, the enemy is already master of; for the time of action is 
spent by us in preparing ; and the issues of war will not wait 
for our slow and irresolute measures. 

" Consider then your present situation, and make such pro- 
vision as the urgent danger requires. Talk not of your ten 
thousands, or your twenty thousand foreigners ; of those armies 
which appear so magnificent on paper only ; great and terrible 
in your decrees, in execution weak and contemptible. But let 
your army be made up chiefly of the native forces of the state ; 
let it be an Athenian strength to which you are to trust ; and 
whomsoever you appoint as general, let them be entirely under 
his guidance and authority. For ever since our armies have 
been formed of foreigners alone, their victories have been gained 
over our allies and confederates only, while our enemies have 
risen to an extravagance of power." 

The orator goes on to point out the number of forces which 
should be raised ; the places of their destination ; the season of 
the year in which they should set out ; and then proposes in form 
his motion, as we would call it, or his decree, for the necessary 
supply of money, and for ascertaining the funds from which it 
should be raised. Having finished all that relates to the busi- 
ness under deliberation, he concludes these orations on public 
affairs, commonly with no longer peroration than the following, 
which terminates the first Philippic : " I, for my part, have 
never, upon any occasion, chosen to court your favour, by 
speaking any thing but what I was convinced would serve you. 
And, on this occasion, you have heard my sentiments freely de- 
clared, without art, and without reserve. I should have been 
pleased, indeed, that, as it is for your advantage, to have your 
true interest laid before you, so I might have been assured, that 
he who layeth it before you would share the advantage. But, 
uncertain as I know the consequence to be with respect to my-- 



300 LECTURE XXVII. 

self, I yet determined to speak, because I was convinced that 
these measures, if pursued, must prove beneficial to the public. 
And, of all those opinions which shall be offered to your ac- 
ceptance, may the gods determine that to be chosen which will 
best advance the general welfare !" 

These extracts may serve to give some imperfect idea of the 
manner of Demosthenes. For a juster and more complete one, 
recourse must be had to the excellent original. 



LECTURE XXVIII. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR.— ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S ORATION 
FOR CLUENTIUS. 

I TREATED, in the last lecture, of what is peculiar to 
the eloquence of popular assemblies. Much of what was said 
on that head is applicable to the eloquence of the bar, the next 
great scene of public speaking to which I now proceed, and my 
observations upon which will therefore be the shorter. All, 
however, that was said in the former lecture must not be ap- 
plied to it ; and it is of importance, that I begin with showing 
where the distinction lies. 

In the first place, the ends of speaking at the bar, and in 
popular assemblies, are commonly different. In popular assem- 
blies, the great object is persuasion ; the oratcar aims at deter- 
mining the hearers to some choice or conduct, as good, fit, or 
useful. For accomplishing this end, it is incumbent on him 
to apply himself to all the principles of action in our nature ; 
to the passions and to the heart, as well as to the understanding. 
But, at the bar, conviction is the great object. There, it is not 
the speaker's business to persuade the judges to what is good 
or useful, but to show them what is just and true ; and of 
course, it is chiefly, or solely to the understanding that his 
eloquence is addressed. This is a characteristical difference 
which ought ever to be kept in view. 

In the next place speakers at the bar address themselves 
to one, or to a few judges, and these, too, persons, generally of 
age, gravity, and authority of character. There, they have 
not those advantages which a mixed and numerous assembly 
affords for employing all the arts of speech, even supposing their 
subject to admit them. Passion does not rise so easily ; the 



ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 



361 



speaker is heard more coolly ; he is watched over more se- 
verely ; and would expose himself to ridicule by attempting that 
high vehement tone, which is only proper in speaking to a mul- 
titude. 

In the last place, the nature and management of the subjects 
which belong to the bar, require a very different species of ora- 
tory from that of popular assemblies. In the latter, the speak- 
er has a much wider range. He is 'seldom confined to any pre- 
cise rule ; he can fetch his topics from a great variety of quar- 
ters ; and employ every illustration which his fancy or imagina- 
tion suggests. But, at the bar, the field of speaking is limited 
to precise law and statute. Imagination is not allowed to take its 
scope. The advocate has always lying before him the line, the 
square, and the compass. These, it is his principal business to 
be continually applying to the subjects under debate. 

For these reasons, it is clear, that the eloquence of the bar 
is of a much more limited, more sober and chastened kind, than 
that of popular assemblies ; and, for similar reasons, we imist 
beware of considering even the judicial orations of Cicero or 
Demosthenes as exact models of the manner cf speaking, which 
is adapted to the present state of the bar. It is necessary to 
warn young lawyers of this : because, though these were plead- 
ings spoken in civil or criminal causes, yet, in fact, the nature 
of the bar anciently, both in Greece and Rome, allowed a much 
nearer approach to popular eloquence, than what it now does. 
This was owing chiefly to two causes. 

First, because in the ancient judicial orations, strict law was 
much less an object of attention than it is become among us. 
In the days of Demosthenes and Cicero, the municipal statutes 
were few, simple, and general ; and the decision of causes was 
trusted, in a great measure, to the equity and common sense of 
the judges. Eloquence, much more than jurisprudence, was 
the study of those who were to plead causes. Cicero some- 
where says, that three months' study was sufficient to make any 
man a complete civilian ; nay, it was thought that one might 
be a good pleader at the bar, who had never studied law at all. 
For there were among the Romans a set of men called prag- 
matici, whose office it was to give the orator all the law know- 
ledge which the cause he was to plead required, and which he 
put into that popular form, and dressed up with those colours of 
eloquence, that were best fitted for influencing the judges before 
whom he spoke. 

We may observe next, that the civil and criminal judges, 



302 LECTURE XXVIII. 

both in Greece and Rome, were commonly much more nume- 
rous than they are with us, and formed a sort of popular assem- 
bly. The renowned tribunal of the Areopagus at Athens con- 
sisted of fifty judges at the least.* Some make it to consist of 
a great many more. When Socrates was condemned, by what 
court it is uncertain, we are informed that no fewer than two 
hundred and eighty voted against him. In Rome, the praetor, 
who was the proper judge both in civil and criminal causes, 
named, for every cause of moment, the judices sekcti, as they 
were called, who were always numerous, and had the office and 
power of both judge and jury. In the famous cause of Milo, 
Cicero spoke to fifty one judices sekcti, and so had the advantage 
of addressing his whole pleading not to one or a few learned 
judges of the point of law, as is the case with us, but to an as- 
sembly of Roman citizens. Hence all those arts of popular 
eloquence which we find the Roman orator so frequently em- 
ploying, and probably with much success. Hence tears and 
commiseration are so often made use of as the instruments of 
gaining a cause. Hence certain practices which would be 
reckoned theatrical among us, were common at the Roman bar ; 
such as introducing not only the accused person dressed in deep 
mourning, but presenting to the judges his family, and his 
young children, endeavouring to move them by their cries and 
tears. 

For these reasons, on account of the wide difference between 
(he ancient and modern state of the bar, to which we may 
add also the difference in the turn of aacient and modern elo- 
quence, which I formerly took notice of, too strict an imitation 
of Cicero's manner of pleading would now be extremely injudi- 
cious. To great advantage he may still be studied by every 
speaker at the bar. In the address with which he opens Lis 
subject, and the insinuation he employs for gaining the favour of 
the judges ; in the distinct arrangement of his facts ; in the 
gracefulness of his narration ; in the conduct and exposition of 
his arguments, he may, and he ought to be imitated. A higher 
pattern cannot be set before us ; but one who should imitata 
him also in his exaggeration and amplifications, in his diffuse and 
pompous declamation, and in his attempts to raise passion, would 
now make himself almost as ridiculous at the bar, as if he should 
appear there in the toga of a Roman lawyer. 

Before I descend to more particular directions concerni - 

• Vide Potter, Antiq. vol. i. p. 102. 



ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 



3G3 



the eloquence of the bar, I must be allowed to take notice, that 
the foundation of a lawyer's reputation and success must always 
be laid in a profound knowledge of his own profession. Nothing 
is of such consequence to him, or deserves more his deep and 
serious study. For whatever his abilities as a speaker may be, 
if his knowledge of the law be reckoned superficial, few will 
choose to commit their cause to him. Besides previous study, 
and a proper stock of knowledge attained, another thing highly 
material to the success of every pleader, is a diligent and 
painful attention to every cause with which he is entrusted, 
so as to be thoroughly master of all the facts and circumstan- 
ces relating to it. On this the ancient rhetoricians insist with 
great earnestness, and justly represent it as a necessary 
basis to all the eloquence that can be exerted in pleading. 
Cicero tells us (under the character of Antonius, in the second 
book De Oratore), that he always conversed at full length with 
every client who came to consult him ; that he took care there 
should be no witness to their conversation, in order that his cli- 
ent might explain himself more freely ; that he was wont to start 
every objection, and to plead the cause of the adverse party with 
him, that he might come at the whole truth, and be fully prepa- 
red on every point of the business ; and that, after the client had 
retired, he used to balance all the facts with himself, under three 
different characters, his own, that of the judge, and that of the 
advocate on the opposite side. He censures very severely those 
of the profession who declined taking so much trouble ; taxing 
them not only with shameful negligence, but with dishonesty 
and breach of trust.* To the same purpose Quintilian, in the 
eighth chapter of his last book, delivers a great many excellent 
rules concerning all the methods which a lawyer should employ 
for attaining the most thorough knowledge of the cause he is to 
plead ; again and again recommending patience and attention in 
conversation with clients, and observing very sensibly, " Non 
tarn obest audire supervacua, quam ignorare necessaria. Fre- 
quenter enim et vulnus et remedium, in lis orator invenie* 

* " Equidem soleo dare operam, ut de sua quisque re me ipse doceat, et, 
ut nequis alius adsit, quo liberius loquatur, et aK<V*. adversarii causani, ut ille 
agat suam, et, quiequid de sua re cogitarit, in medium proferat. Itaque cum 
ill? disceisit, tres pcrsonas unus sustineo, surama animi aequitate, meam, adver- 
sarii judicis.— Nonnulli, duin operam snam multam existimari volunt. ut toto foro 
vuiitare, et a causa ad causam ire videantur, causas dicunt incognitas. In quo 
e.i* itla Quidem magna offensio, vel negligentiae susceptis rebus, vel perfidras 

receptis ; sed etiam ilia major opinione, quod nemo potest de ea re, quam non 

novit, non turpissime dicere." — II. 24. 



3G4 LECTURE XXV [IT. 

quae litigatori in neutram partem, habere momentum vide- 
bantur.** 

Supposing an advocate to be thus prepared, with all the know- 
ledge which the study of the law in general, and of that cause 
which he is to plead in particular, can furnish him, I must next 
observe, that eloquence in pleading is of the highest moment 
for giving support to a cause. It were altogether wrong to in- 
fer, that because the ancient popular and vehement manner is 
now in a great measure superseded, there is, therefore, no room 
for eloquence at the bar, and that the study of it has become 
superfluous. Though the manner of speaking be changed, 
yet still there is a right and proper manner, which deserves 
to be studied as much as ever. Perhaps there is no scene 
of public speaking where eloquence is more necessary. For 
on other occasions, the subject on which men speak in pub- 
lic, is frequently sufficient, by itself, to interest the hearers. But 
the dryness and subtilty of the subjects generally agitated at the 
bar, require, more than any other, a certain kind of eloquence in 
order to command attention ; in order to give proper weight to 
the arguments that are employed, and to prevent any thing which 
the pleader advances from passing unregarded. The effect of good 
speaking is always very great. There is as much difference in the 
impression made upon the hearers, by a cold, dry, and confused 
speaker, and that made by one who pleads the same cause with 
elegance, order, and strength, as there is between our concep- 
tion of an object, when it is presented to us in a dim light, and 
when we behold it in a full and clear one. 

It is no small encouragement to eloquence at the bar, that of 
all the liberal professions, none gives fairer play to genius and 
abilities than that of the advocate. He is less exposed than 
some others, to suffer by the arts of rivalry, by popular preju- 
dices, or secret intrigues. He is sure of coming forward accord- 
ing to his merit: for he stands forth every day to view ; he 
enters the lists boldly with his competitors ; every appearance 
which he makes is an appeal to the public, whose decision sel- 
dom fails of being just, because it is impartial. Interest and 
friends may set forward a young pleader with peculiar advan- 
tages beyond others, at the beginning ; but they can do no more 

• " To listen to something that is superfluous can do no hurt ; whereas to be 
ignorant of something that is material, may be highly prejudicial. The advocate 
will frequently discover the weak side of a cause, and learn, at the same time, 
what is the proper defence, from circumstances which, to the. party himself, ap- 
peared to be of little or no moment." 



ELOQUENCE OF THE BAIL 



355 



than open the field to him. A reputation resting on these assis- 
tances will soon fall. Spectators remark, judges decide, parties 
watch ; and to him will the multitude of clients never fail to re- 
sort, who gives the most approved specimens of his knowledge, 
eloquence, and industry . 

It must be laid down for a first principle, that the eloquence 
suited to the bar, whether in speaking, or in writing law papers, 
is of the calm and temperate kind, and connected with close rea- 
soning. Sometimes a little play may be allowed to the imagina- 
tion, in order to enliven a dry subject, and give relief to the 
fatigue of attention : but this liberty must be taken with a spar- 
ing hand. For a florid style, and a sparkling manner, never fail 
to make the speaker be heard with a jealous ear by the judge. 
They detract from his weight, and always produce a suspicion of 
his failing in .soundness or strength of argument. It is purity 
and neatness of expression which is chiefly to be studied ; a style 
perspicuous and proper, which shall not be needlessly over- 
charged with the pedantry of law terms, and where, at the same 
time, no affectation shall appear of avoiding these, when they 
are suitable and necessary. 

Verbosity is a common fault, of which the gentlemen of this 
profession are accused ; and into which the habit of speaking 
and writing so hastily, and with so little preparation, as they 
are often obliged to do, almost unavoidably betrays them. It 
cannot, therefore, be too much recommended to those who are 
beginning to practise at the bar, that they should early study to 
guard against this, while as yet they have full leisure for prepa- 
ration. Let them form themselves, especially in the papers 
which they write, to the habit of a strong and a correct style ; 
which expresses the same thing much better in a few words, than 
is done by the accumulation of intricate and endless periods. If 
this habit be once acquired, it will become natural to them after- 
wards, when the multiplicity of business shall force them to com- 
pose in a more precipitant manner. Whereas, if the practice of a 
loose and negligent style has been suffered to become familiar, it will 
not be in their power, even upon occasions when they wish to make 
an unusual effort, to express themselves with energy and grace. 

Distinctness is a capital property in speaking at the bar. 
This should be shown chiefly in two things : first in stating the 
question ; in showing clearly what is the point in debate ; what 
we admit ; what we deny ; and where the lino of division be- 
gins between us and the adverse party. Next, it should be shown 



K66 LECTURE XXVIII. 

in the order and arrangement of all the parts of the pleading. In 
every sort of oration, a clear method is of the utmost consequence ; 
but in those embroiled and difficult cases which belong to the 
bar, it is almost all in all. Too much pains, therefore, cannot 
be taken in previously studying the plan and method. If there 
be indistinctness and disorder there, we can have no success in 
convincing ; we leave the whole cause in darkness. 

With respect to the conduct of narration and argumentation, 
I shall hereafter make several remarks, when I come to treat of 
the component parts of a regular. oration. I shall at present only 
observe, that the narration of facts at the bar should always be 
as concise as the nature of them will admit. Facts are always 
of the greatest consequence to be remembered during the course 
of the pleading ; but, if the pleader be tedious in his manner of 
relating them, and needlessly circumstantial, he lays too great a 
load upon the memory. Whereas, by cutting off all superfluous 
circumstances in his recital, he adds strength to the material 
facts : he both gives a clearer view of what he relates, and makes 
the impression of it more lasting. In argumentation, again, I 
would incline to give scope to a more diffuse manner at the bar, 
than on some other occasions. For, in popular assemblies, 
where the subject of debate is often a plain question, arguments 
taken from known topics, gain strength by their conciseness. 
But the obscurity of law points frequently requires the argu- 
ments to be spread out, and placed in different lights, in order 
to be fully apprehended. 

When the pleader comes to refute the arguments employed 
by his adversary, he should be on his guard not to do them in- 
justice, by disguising, or placing them in a false light. The 
deceit is soon discovered : it will not fail of being exposed ; and 
tends to impress the judge and the hearers with distrust of the 
speaker, as one who either wants discernment to perceive, 
or wants fairness to admit the strength of the reasoning on the 
other side. Whereas, when they see that he states, with ac- 
curacy and candour, the arguments which have been used 
against him, before he proceeds to combat them, a strong pre- 
judice is created in his favour. They are naturally led to think, 
that he has a clear and full conception of all that can be said on 
both sides of the argument ; that he has entire confidence in the 
goodness of his own cause ; and does not attempt to support it 
by any artifice or concealment. The judge is thereby inclined 
to receive much more readily, the impressions which are made 



ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. ion 

him by a speaker, who appears both so fair and so penetrating. 
There is no part of the discourse, in which the orator has greater 
opportunity of showing a masterly address, than when he sets 
Jnmself to represent the reasonings of his antagonist, in order to 
refute them. 

Wit may sometimes be of service at the bar, especially in a 
lively reply, by which we may throw ridicule on something that 
lias been said on the other side. But though the reputation of 
wit. be dazzling to a young pleader, I would never advise him 
to rest his strength upon this talent. It is not his business to 
make an audience laugh, but to convince the judge ; and seldom 
or never did any one rise to eminence in his profession, by being 
a witty lawyer. 

A proper degree of warmth in pleading a cause is always of 
use. Though, in speaking to a multitude, greater vehemence 
be natural ; yet, in addressing ourselves even to a single man, 
the warmth which arises from seriousness and earnestness, is 
one of the most powerful means of persuading him. An advocate 
personates his client ; he has taken upon him the whole charge 
of his interests ; he stands in his place. It is improper, there- 
fore, and has a bad effect upon the cause, if he appears indiffer- 
ent and unmoved ; and few clients will be fond of trusting their 
interests in the hands of a cold speaker. 

At the same time, he must beware of prostituting his earnest- 
ness and sensibility so much as to enter with equal warmth into 
every cause that is committed to him, whethei it can be supposed 
really to excite his zeal or not. There is a dignity of character, 
which it is of the utmost importance for every one in this pro- 
fession to support. For it must never be forgotten, that there 
is no instrument of persuasion more powerful, than an opinion 
of probity and honour in the person who undertakes to persuade.* 
It is scarcely possible for any hearer to separate altogether the 
impression made by the character of him that speaks, from the 
things that he says. However secretly and and imperceptibly, 
it will be always lending its weight to one side or other ; 
either detracting from, or adding to, the authority and influenc 
of his speech. This opinion of honour and probity must there- 
fore be carefully preserved both by some degree of delicacy in 
the choice of causes, and by the manner of conducting them. 
And though, perhaps, the nature of the profession may render 

* " Plurimum acl omnia momenti est in hoc positnm, si vir bonus creditu.. 
Sic enim conlingei, ut non studium advocati videatur afferre, sed paene testis 
fidem."— Quint, lib. iv. c. i. 



368 LECTURE XXVIII. 

it extremely difficult to carry this delicacy its utmost length, yet 
there are attentions to this point, which, as every good man for 
virtue's sake, so every prudent man for reputation's sake, will 
find to be necessary. He will always decline embarking in 
causes that are odious and manifestly unjust ; and, when he 
supports a doubtful cause, he will lay the chief stress upon such 
arguments as appear to his own judgment the most tenable ; re- 
serving his zeal and his indignation for cases where injustice 
and iniquity are flagrant. But of the personal qualities and vir- 
tues requisite in public speakers, I shall afterwards have occasion 
to discourse. 

These are the chief directions which have occurred to me 
concerning the peculiar strain of speaking at the bar. In order 
to illustrate the subject further, I shall give a short analysis of 
one of Cicero's Pleadings, or Judicial Orations. I have chosen 
that, pro Cluentio. The celebrated one, pro Milone, is more la- 
boured and showy, but it is too declamatory. That, pro Cluentio, 
comes nearer the strain of a modern pleading ; and though it has 
the disadvantage of being very long, and complicated too in the 
subject, yet it is one of the most chaste, correct, and forcible of 
all Cicero's judicial orations, and well deserves attention for its 
conduct. 

Avitus Cluentius, a Roman knight of splendid family and 
fortunes, had accused his stepfather Oppianicus of an attempt 
to poison him. He prevailed in the prosecution ; Oppianicus 
was condemned and banished. But as rumours arose of the 
judges having been corrupted by money in this cause, these 
gave occasion to much popular clamour, and had thrown a heavy 
odium on Cluentius. Eight years afterwards Oppianicus died. 
An accusation was brought against Cluentius of having poisoned 
him, together with a charge also of having bribed the judges in 
the former trial to condemn. In this action Cicero defends him. 
The accusers were Sassia, the mother of Cluentius, and widow 
of Oppianicus, and young Oppianicus, the son. Q. Naso, the 
praetor, was judge, together with a considerable number of 
judices selecti. 

The introduction of the oration is simple and proper, taken 
from no common-place topic, but from the nature of the cause. 
It begins with taking notice, that the whole oration of the ac- 
cusor was divided into two parts.* These two parts were, the 

* " Animadverti, judices, omnem accusatoris orationem in dnas divisam 
esie partes ; quarurn altera mihi niti et magnopere confidere videbatur invidia 
jam inveterata judicii Juniani, altera tantummodo consuetudinis causa timide 



ELOQUENCE OF THE BAH. 369 

charge of having poisoned Oppianicus ; on which the accuser, 
conscious of having no proof, did not lay the stress of his cause ; 
but rested it chiefly on the other charge of formerly corrupting 
the judges, which was capital in certain cases by the Roman 
law. Cicero purposes to follow him in this method, and to 
apply himself chiefly to the vindication of his client from the 
latter charge. He makes several proper observations on the 
danger of judges suffering themselves to be swayed by a popular 
cry, which often is raised by faction, and directed against the 
innocent. He acknowledges, that Cluentius had suffered much 
and long by the reproach, on account of what had passed at the 
former trial ; but begs only a patient and attentive hearing, and 
assures the judges, that he will state every thing relating to that 
matter so fairly and so clearly, as shall give them entire satis- 
faction. A great appearance of candour reigns throughout this 
introduction m 

The crimes with which Cluentius was charged, were heinous. 
A mother accusing her son, and accusing him of such actions, 
as having first bribed judges to condemn her husband, arid 
having afterwards poisoned him, were circumstances that natu 
rally raised strong prejudices against Cicero's client. The first 
step, therefore, necessary for the orator, was to remove thesv 
prejudices ; by showing what sort of persons Cluentius's mother 
and her husband Oppianicus, were ; and thereby turning the 
edge of public indignation against them. The nature of the 
cause rendered this plan altogether proper, and in similar situa- 
tions it is fit to be imitated. He executes his plan with much 
eloquence and force ; and in doing it lays open such a scene 
of infamy and complicated guilt, as gives a shocking picture of 
the manners of that age ; and such as would seem incredible, 
did not Cicero refer to the proof that was taken in the former 
trial, of the facts which he alleges. 

Sassia, the mother appears to have been altogether of an 
abandoned character. Soon after the death of her first hus- 
band, the father of Cluentius, she fell in love with Aurius Meli- 
nus, a young man of illustrious birth and great fortune, who was 
married to her own daughter. She prevailed with him to di- 
vorce her daughter, and then she married him herself. *• This 

ct diffidenter attingere rationem veneficii criminum ; qua de re lege est haec 
quaistio constituta. Itaque mihi certum est, lianc eandem distributionem invi- 
diam et criminum sic in defensione servare, ut omnes intelligent, nihil me nee 
subterfugere voluisse reticendo, nee obscurare dicendo."— c. 1. 

* " Lectum ilium genialem quem biennio ante filiae suae nubenti straveraf, m 
eadem domo sibi ornari et sterni, expulsa atque exturbatn filia, jubet. Nubi 

2 B 



370 LECTURE XXVIII. 

Melinus being afterwards, by the means of Oppianicus, involved 
in Sylla's proscription, and put to death ; and Sassia being left, 
for the second time, a widow, and in a very opulent situation, 
Oppianicus himself made his addresses to her. She, not start- 
led at the impudence of the proposal, nor at the thoughts of 
marrying one, whose hands had been imbrued in her former hus- 
band's blood, objected only, as Cicero says to Oppianicus hav- 
ing two sons by his present wife. Oppianicus removed the 
objection, by having his sons privately dispatched ; and then 
divorcing his wife, the infamous match was concluded between 
him and Sassia. These flagrant deeds are painted, as we may 
well believe, with the highest colours of Cicero's eloquence, 
which here has a very proper field. Cluentius, as a man of 
honour, could no longer live on any tolerable terms with a wo- 
man, a mother only in the name, who had loaded herself and all 
her family with .so much dishonour ; and hence the feud which 
had ever since subsisted between them, and had involved her 
unfortunate son in so much trouble and persecution. As for 
Oppianicus, Cicero gives a short history of his life, and a full 
detail of his crimes ; and by what he relates, Oppianicus appears 
to have been a man daring, fierce, and cruel, insatiable in avarice 
and ambition ; trained and hardened in all the crimes which 
those turbulent times of Marius and Sylla's proscriptions pro- 
duced : " Such a man," says our orator, " as, in place of being 
surprised that he was condemned, you ought rather to wonder 
that he had escaped so long." 

And now, having prepared the way by all this narration, 
which is clear and elegant, he enters on the history of that fa- 
mous trial in which his client was charged with corrupting the 
judges. Both Cluentius and Oppianicus were of the city of 
Larinum. In a public contest about the rights of the freemen 
of that city, they had taken opposite sides, which embittered the 
misunderstanding already subsisting between them. Sassia, now 
the wife of Oppianicus, pushed him on to the destruction of her 
son, whom she had long hated, as one who was conscious of her 
crimes ; and as Cluentius was known to have made no will, 



genere socrus, nullis auspicibus funestis omnibus omnium. O mulieris scelu* 
incredibile, et, prater hanc unam, in oinni vita inauditum ! O audaciam singu- 
larem ! non thnuisse, si minus vim deorum, hominumque famam, at illam ipsam 
noctem facesque illas nuptiales ? non limen cubiculi 1 non cubile filiae ? non pail, 
etes denique ipsos, superiorum testes nuptiarum ? perfregit ac prostravit omnia 
cupiditate et furore: vicit pudorem libido, timorem audacia, rationem amen- 
tia." — c. 5. fin.— The warmth of Cicero's eloquence, which this passage beautifully 
exemplifies, is here fully justified by the subject. 



CICERO'S ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 

they expected, upon his death, to succeed to his fortune. The 
plan was formed, therefore, to dispatch him by poison ; which, 
considering their former conduct, is no incredible part of the 
story. Cluentius was at that time indisposed: the servant of his 
physician was to be bribed to give him poison, and one Fabri- 
cius, an intimate friend of Oppianicus, was employed in the 
negociation. The servant having made the discovery, Cluentius 
first prosecuted Scamander, a freedman of Fabricius, in whose 
custody the poison was found ; and afterwards Fabricius, for 
this attempt upon his life. He prevailed in both actions : and 
both these persons were condemned by the voices, almost un* 
animous, of the judges. 

Of both these proyndicia, as our author calls them, or pre- 
vious trials, he gives a very particular account ; and rests upon 
them a great part of his argument, as in neither of them there 
was the least charge or suspicion of any attempt to corrupt the 
judges. But in both these trials, Oppianicus was pointed at 
plainly ; in both, Scamander and Fabricius were prosecuted as 
only the instruments and ministers of his cruel designs. As a 
natural consequence, therefore, Cluentius immediately afterwards 
raised a third prosecution against Oppianicus himself, the con- 
triver and author of the whole. It was in this prosecution that 
money was said to have been given to the judges ; all Rome was 
filled with the report of it, and the alarm loudly raised, that 
no man's life or liberty was safe, if such dangerous practices 
were not checked. By the following arguments, Cicero defends 
his client against this heavy charge of the crimen corrupti judicii. 

He reasons, first, that there was not the least reason to sus- 
pect it ; seeing the condemnation of Oppianicus was a direct 
and necessary consequence of the judgments given against 
Scamander and Fabricius, in the two former trials ; trials that 
were fair and uncorrupted ; to the satisfaction of the whole 
world. Yet by these the road was laid clearly open to the 
detection of Oppianicus's guilt. His instruments and ministers 
being once condemned, and by the very same judges too, 
nothing could be more absurd than to raise a cry about an 
innocent person being circumvented by bribery, when it was 
evident, on the contrary, that a guilty person was now brought 
into judgment, under such circumstances, that unless the judges 
were altogether inconsistent with themselves, it was impossible 
for him to be acquitted. 

He reasons, next, that if in this trial there were any corrup- 
tion of the judges by money, it was infinitely more probable, 

B 2 



372 LECTURE XXVIII. 

that corruption should have proceeded from Oppianicus than 
from Oluentius. For setting aside the difference of character 
between the two men, the one fair, the other flagitious ; what 
motive had Cluentius to try so odious and dangerous an experi- 
ment, as that of bribing judges ? Was it not much more likely 
that he should have had recourse to this last remedy, who saw 
and knew himself and his cause to be in the utmost danger ; 
than the other, who had a cause clear in itself, and of the issue 
of which, in consequence of the two previous sentences given by 
the same judges, he had full reason to be confident? Was it 
not much more likely, that he should bribe, who had every thing 
to fear ; whose life and liberty, and fortune, were at stake ; than 
lie who had already prevailed in a material part of his charge, 
and who had no further interest in the issue of the prosecution, 
than as justice was concerned? 

In the third place, he asserts it as a certain fact, that Oppi- 
anicus did attempt to bribe the judges ; that the corruption in 
this trial, so much complained of, was employed, not by Cluen- 
tius, but against him. He calls on Titus Attius, the orator on 
the opposite side ; he challenges him to deny, if he can, or if he 
dare, that Stalenus, one of the thirty-two judices sekcti, did re- 
ceive money from Oppianicus ; he names the sum that was 
given ; he names the persons that were present, when, after the 
trial was over, Stalenus was obliged to refund the bribe. This 
is a strong fact, and would seem quite decisive. But, unluckily, 
a very cross circumstance occurs here. For this very Stalenus 
gave his voice to condemn Oppianicus. For this strange inci- 
dent, Cicero accounts in the following manner : Stalenus, says 
he, known to be a worthless man, and accustomed before to the 
like practices, entered into a treaty with Oppianicus, to bring 
him off, and demanded for that purpose a certain sum, which he 
undertook to distribute among a competent number of the other 
judges. When he was once in possession of the money ; when 
he found a greater treasure than ever he had been master of, 
deposited in his empty and wretched habitation, he became very 
unwilling to part with any of it to his colleagues ; and bethought 
himself of some means by which he could contrive to keep it all 
to himself. The scheme which he devised for this purpose was, 
to promote the condemnation, instead of the acquittal, of Oppi- 
anicus ; as from a condemned person he did not apprehend 
much danger of being called to account, or being obliged to 
make restitution. Instead, therefore, of endeavouring to gain 
any of his colleagues, he irritated such as he had influence with 



CICERO'S ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 3*3 

against Oppianicus, by first promising them money in his name, 
and afterwards telling them that Oppianicus had cheated him.* 
When sentence was to be pronounced, he had taken measures 
for being absent himself; but being brought by Oppianicus's 
lawyers from another court, and obliged to give his voice, he 
found it necessary to lead the way, in condemning the man 
whose money he had taken, without fulfilling the bargain which 
he had made with him. 

By these plausible facts and reasonings, the character of 
Cluentius seems in a great measure cleared ; and what Cicero 
chiefly intended, the odium thrown upon the adverse party. 
But a difficult part of the orator's business still remained. There 
were several subsequent decisions of the praetor, the censors, 
and the senate, against the judges in this cause ; which all pro- 
ceeded, or seemed to proceed, upon this ground of bribery and 
corruption ; for it is plain the suspicion prevailed, that if Oppi- 
anicus had given money to Stalenus, Cluentius had outbribed 
him. To all these decisions, however, Cicero replies with much 
distinctness and subtilty of argument ; though it might be tedi- 
ous to follow him through all his reasonings on these heads. 
He shows that the facts were, at that time, very indistinctly 
known ; that the decisions appealed to were hastily given ; that 
not one of them concluded directly against his client ; and that, 
such as they were, they were entirely brought about by the in- 
flammatory and factious harangues of Quinctius, the tribune of 
the people, who had been the agent and advocate of Oppianicus ; 
and who, enraged at the defeat he had sustained, had employed 
all his tribunitial influence to raise a storm against the judges 
who condemned his client. 

At length, Cicero comes to reason concerning the point ot 
law. The crimen corrupti judicii, or the bribing of judges, was 
capital. In the famous Lex Cornelia de Sicariis, was contained. 
this clause (which we find still extant, Pandect, lib* xlviii. tit. 
10. § 1.) " Qui judicem corruperit, vel corrumpendum curaverit,. 
hac lege teneatur." This clause, however, we learn from Cicero, 
was restricted to magistrates and senators ; and as Cluentius 

* " Cum esset egens, sumptuosns, audax, callidus, perfidiosus, et cum domi 
sura, miserrimis in locis, et inanissiinis, tantum numorum positum viderit ; ad 
omncin malitiam et fraudem versare mentem suam coepit. Demne judicibus ? 
mini igitur ipsi, praeter periculum et infamiam, quid quaeretur ? Si quis eum forte 
casus ex periculo eripuerit, nonne reddendum est? praecipitantem igitur impella- 
mus, inquit, et perditum prosternamus. Capit hoc consilium ut pecuniam quibus- 
dam judicibus levissimis polliceatur ; deinde earn poste.a supprimat ; nt, quoniam 
graves homines sua sponte severe judicatures putabat, hos, qui leviores eraut, 
destitutione iratos Oppianico redderet." — c. 26. 



374 LECTUltE XXVI II. 

was only of the equestrian order, he was not, even supposing 
him guilty, within the law. Of this Cicero avails himsell 
doubly ; and as he shows here the most masterly address, I shall 
give a summary of his pleading on this part of the cause : 
" You," says he to the advocate for the prosecutor, " you, 
T. Attius, I know, had every where given it out, that I was to 
defend my client, not from facts, not upon the footing of inno- 
cence, bufcby taking advantage merely of the law in his behalf. 
Have I done so ? I appeal to yourself. Have I sought to 
cover him behind a legal defence only? On the contrary, have 
I not pleaded his cause as if he had been a senator, liable, by 
the Cornelian law, to be capitally convicted ; and shown that 
neither proof nor probable presumption lies against his inno- 
cence ? In doing so, I must acquaint you, that I have complied 
with the desire of Cluentius himself. For when he first consulted 
me in this cause, and when I informed him that it was clear no 
action could be brought against him from the Cornelian law, he 
instantly besought and obtested me, that I would not rest his 
defence on that ground ; saying, with tears in his eyes, that his 
reputation was as dear to him as his life ; and that what he 
sought as an innocent man, was not only to be absolved from 
any penalty, but to be acquitted in the opinion of all his fellow- 
citizens. 

" Hitherto, then, I have pleaded this cause upon his plan. 
But my client must forgive me, if now I should plead it upon 
my own. For I should be wanting to myself, and to that regard 
which my character and station require me to bear to the laws 
of the state, if I should allow any person to be judged of by a 
law which does not bind him. You, Attius, indeed, have told 
us, that it was a scandal and reproach, that a Roman knight 
should be exempted from those penalties to which a senator, for 
corrupting judges, is liable. But I must tell you, that it would 
be a much greater reproach, in a state that is regulated by law, 
to depart from the law. What safety have any of us in our 
persons, what security for our rights, if the law shall be set 
aside ? By what title do you, Q. Naso, sit in that chair and 
preside in this judgment ? By what right, T. Attius, do you 
accuse, or do I defend? Whence all the solemnity and pomp 
of judges, and clerks, and officers, of which this house is full? 
Does not all proceed from the law, which regulates the whole 
departments of the state ; which, as a common bond, holds its 
members together ; and, like the soul within the body, actuates 



ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 375 

and directs all the public functions ?* Un what ground, then 
dare you speak lightly of the law, or move that, in a criminal 
trial, judges should advance one step beyond what it permits 
them to go ? The wisdom of our ancestors has found, that, as 
senators and magistrates enjoy higher dignities, and greater ad- 
vantages than other members of the state, the law should also, 
with regard to them, be more strict, and the purity and uncor- 
ruptedness of their morals be guarded by more severe sanctions 
But if it be your pleasure that this institution should be altered, 
if you wish to have the Cornelian law, concerning bribery, ex- 
tended to all ranks, then let us join, not in violating the law, 
but in proposing to have this alteration made by a new law. 
My client, Cluentius, will be the foremost in this measure, who 
now, while the old law subsists, rejected its defence, and required 
his cause to be pleaded, as if he had been bound by it. But, 
though he would not avail himself of the law, you are bound in 
justice not to stretch it beyond its proper limits." 

Such is the reasoning of Cicero on thik head ; eloquent, 
surely, and strong. As his manner is diffuse, I have greatly 
abridged it from the original, but have endeavoured to retain its 
force. 

In the latter part of the oration, Cicero treats of the other 
accusation that was brought against Cluentius, of having 
poisoned Oppianicus. On this, it appears, his accusers them- 
selves laid small stress ; having placed their chief hope in over- 
whelming Cluentius with the odium of bribery in the former 
trial ; and, therefore, on this part of the cause, Cicero does not 
dwell long. He shows the improbability of the whole tale 
which they related concerning this pretended poisoning, and 
makes it appear to be altogether destitute of any shadow of 
proof. 

Nothing, therefore, remains but the peroration, or conclusion 
of the whole. In this, as indeed throughout the whole of this 
oration, Cicero is uncommonly chaste, and, in the midst of 



* " Ait Attius, indignum esse facinus, si senator judicio quenquam circum- 
vcnerit, legibus eum teneri ; si eques Romanus hoc idem f'ecerit, non tcneri. Ut 
tibi concedam, hoc indignum esse, tu mihi concedas necesse est, multo esse indig- 
nius, in ea civitate, quae legibus teneatur, discedi a legibus. Hoc enim vinculum 
est hujus dignitatis, qua? fruimur in republica, hoc fundamentum libertatis hie 
fons aequitatis ; mens, et animus, et consilium, et sententia civitatis posits est in 
legibus. Ut corpora nostra sine mente, sic civitas sine lege, suis partibus, ut 
nervis ac sanguine et membris, uti non potest. Legum ministri magistratus ; 
legum interpretes, judices; legum, denique idcirco omnes simus servi, ut liber 
esse pos9imus. Quid est. Q. Naso, cur tu in hoc loco sedeas ?" &c. — c. 53. 



370 LECTURE XXV 11. 

much warmth and earnestness, keeps clear of turgid declama- 
tion. The peroration turns on two points ; the indignation 
which the character and conduct of Sassia ought to excite, and 
the compassion due to a son, persecuted through his whole life 
by such a mother. He recapitulates the crimes of Sassia ; her 
lewdness, her violation of every decorum, her incestuous mar- 
riages, her violence and cruelty. He places, in the most odious 
light, the eagerness and fury which she had shown in the suit sH 
was carrying on against her son ; describes her journey from 
Larinum to Rome, with a train of attendants, and a great store 
of money, that she might employ every method for circum- 
venting and oppressing him in this trial ; while in the whole 
course of her journey, she was so detested, as to make a soli- 
tude wherever she lodged; she was shunned and avoided by 
all ; her company, and her very looks, were reckoned conta- 
gious ; the house was deemed polluted, which was entered into 
by so abandoned a woman.* To this he opposes the character 
of Cluentius, fail*, unspotted, and respectable. He produces the 
testimonies of the magistrates of Larinum in his favour, given in 
the most ample and honourable manner by a public decree, and 
supported by a great concourse of the most noted inhabitants, 
who were now present, to second every thing that Cicero could 
say in favour of Cluentius. 

"Wherefore, judges," he concludes, . " if you abominate 
crimes, stop the triumph of this impious woman, prevent this 
most unnatural mother from rejoicing in her son's blood. If 
you love virtue and worth, relieve this unfortunate man, who 
for so many years has been exposed to most unjust reproach 
through the calumnies raised against him by Sassia, Oppiani- 
cus, and all their adherents. Better far had it been for him to 
have ended his days at once by the poison which Oppianicus 
had prepared for him, than to have escaped those snares, if he 
must still be oppressed by an odium which I have shown to be 

* " Cum appropinqnare hnjus judicium ei nuntiatum est, confestim hie advo- 
lavit, ne aut accusatoribns diligentia, aut pecunia testibus deesset ; aut ne forte 
mater hoc sibi optatissimum spectaculum hujus sordium atque luctus, et tanti 
squaloris amitterit. Jam vero quod iter Romam hnjus mulieris fuisse existima- 
tis ? Quod ego, propter vicinitatem Aquinatium ot Venafranorum, ex multis 
comperi: quos concursus in his oppidis? Quantos et virorum et mulierum 
gemitus esse factos ? Mulierem quandam Larino, atque illam usque a mari su- 
pero Romam p k ;ficisci, cum magno comitatu et pecunia, quo facilius circumvenire 
judicio capitis, atque opprimere filium possit. Nerjo erat illorum, paene dicam, 
quin expiandum ilium locum esse arbitraretur quacunque ilia iter fecissit ; 
nemo, quin terram ipsam violari, quae mater est omnium, vestigiis consceleratse 
ruatris putaret. Itaque nullo in oppido consistendi ei potesta3 fuit ; nemo ex 
tot hospitibus inventus est, qui non contagioEem adspectus fugeret."— c. C7-P 



ORATFON FOR CLUENTIUS. 377 

so unjust. But in you he trusts, in your clemency and your 
equity, that now on a full and fair hearing of this cause, you 
will restore him to his honour ; you will restore him to nis 
friends and fellow-citizens, of whose zeal and high estimation of 
him you have seen such strong proofs ; and will show, by your 
decision, that though faction and calumny may reign for a while 
in popular meetings and harangues, in trial and judgment regard 
is paid to the truth only." 

I have given only a skeleton of this oration of Cicero. 
What I have principally aimed at, was to show his disposition 
and method ; his arrangement of facts, and the conduct and 
force of some of his main arguments. But, in order to have a 
full view of the subject, and of the art with which the orator 
manages it, recourse must be had to the original. Few of Ci- 
cero's orations contain a greater variety of facts and argumen- 
tations, which renders it difficult to analyze it fully. But for 
this reason I choose it, as an excellent example of managing at the 
bar a complex and intricate cause, with order, elegance, and force. 



LECTURE XXIX. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 



Before treating of the structure and component parts of 
a regular oration, I purposed making some observations on the 
peculiar strain, the distinguishing characters, of each of the 
three great kinds of public speaking. I have already treated of 
the eloquence of popular assemblies, and of the eloquence of the 
bar. The subject which remains for this lecture is, the strain 
and spirit of that eloquence which is suited to the pulpit. 

Let us begin with considering the advantages and disadvan- 
tages, which belong to this field of public speaking. The pulpit 
has plainly several advantages peculiar to itself. The dignity, 
and importance of its subjects must be acknowledged superior 
to any other. They are such as ought to interest every one 
and can be brought home to every man's heart ; and such as ad- 
mit, at the same time, both the highest embellishment in describ- 
ing, and the greatest vehemence and warmth in enforcing them 
The preacher has also great advantages in treating his subjects. 
He speaks not to one or a few judges, but to a large assembly- 
He is secure from all interruption. He is obliged to no replies, 
or extemporaneous efforts. He chooses his theme at leisure ; 



378 LECTURE XXIX. 

and comes to the public with all the assistance which the most 
accurate premeditation can give him. 

But, together with these advantages, there are also peculiar 
difficulties that attend the eloquence of the pulpit. The preacher, 
it is true, has no trouble in contending with an adversary ; but 
then, debate and contention enliven genius, and procure atten- 
tion. The pulpit orator is, perhaps, in too quiet possession of 
his field. His subjects of discourse are, in themselves, noble 
and important ; but they are subjects trite and familiar. They 
have for ages employed so many speakers, and so many pens ; 
the public ear is so much accustomed to them, that it requires 
more than an ordinary power of genius to fix attention. No- 
thing within the reach of art is more difficult, than to bestow on 
what is common, the grace of novelty. No sort of composition 
whatever is such a trial of skill, as where the merit of it lies 
wholly in the execution ; not in giving any information that is 
new, not in convincing men of what they did not believe ; but in 
dressing truths which they knew, and of which they were before 
convinced, in such colours as may most forcibly affect their 
imagination and heart.* It is to be considered, too, that the 
subject of the preacher generally confines him to abstract qualities, 
to virtues and vices ; whereas, that of other popular speakers 
leads them to treat of persons : which is a subject that com- 
monly interests the hearers more, and takes faster hold of the 
imagination. The preacher's business is solely to make you de- 
test the crime. The pleader's, to make you detest the criminal. 
He describes a living person ; and with more facility rouses 
your indignation. From these causes, it comes to pass, that 

* What I have said on this subject, coincides very much with the observations 
made by the famous M. Bruyere, in his Mceurs de Siecle, when he is comparing 
the eloquence of the pulpit to that of the bar. " L'eloquence de la chaire, en ce 
qui y entre d'humain, et du talent de l'orateur, est cachee, connue de peu de 
personnes, et d'une difficile execution. II faut marcher par des chemins battus, 
dire ce qui a ete dit, et ce que Ton prevoit que vous allez dire : les matieres sont 
grandes, mais us6es et triviales; les principes surs, mais dont les auditenrs 
penetrent les conclusions d'une seule vue : il y entre des sujets qui sont sublimes, 
mais qui peut traiter le sublime ?— Le predicateur n'est point soutenu comme 
l'avocat par des faits toujours nouveaux, par de diff'erens evenemens, par des 
aventures inoiues ; il ne s'exerce point sur les questions douteuses ; il ne fait point 
valoir les violentes conjectures, et les presomptions ; toutes choses, neanmoins, 
qui elevent le genie, lui donnent de la force et de l'etendue, et qui contraignent 
bien moins l'eloquence, qu'elles ne le fixent, et le dirigent. II doit, au contraire, 
tirer son discours d'une source commune et ou tout le monde puisse ; et s'il s'ecarte 
de ces lieux communs, il n'est plus populaire ; il est abstrait ou declamateur." — 
The inference which he draws from these reflections is very just — " II est plus 
aisl de precher que de plaider ; mais plus difficile de bien precher que de bien 
plaider." Les Caracteres, ou Mceurs de ce Siecl° »• CA1 






ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 379 

though we have a great number of moderately good preachers, 
we have, however, so few that are singularly eminent. We are 
still far from perfection in the art of preaching ; and perhaps 
there are few things in which it is more difficult to excel.* The 
object, however, is noble, and worthy, upon many accounts, of 
being pursued with zeal. 

It may perhaps occur to some, that preaching is no proper 
subject of the art of eloquence. This, it may be said, belongs 
only to human studies and inventions : but the truths of religion, 
with the greater simplicity, and the less mixture of art they are 
set forth, are likely to prove the more successful. This objec- 
tion would have weight, if eloquence were, as the persons who 
make such an objection commonly take it to be, an ostentatious 
and deceitful art, the study of words and of plausibility only, 
calculated to please, and to tickle the ear. But against this idea 
of eloquence, I have all along guarded. True eloquence is the 
art of placing truth in the most advantageous light for conviction 
and persuasion. This is what every good man who preaches the 
gospel not only may, but ought to have at heart. It is most in- 
timately connected with the success of his ministry ; and were 
it needful, as assuredly it is not, to reason any further on this 
head, we might refer to the discourses of the prophets and 
apostles, as models of the most sublime and persuasive elo- 
quence, adapted both to the imagination and the passions of 
men. 

An essential requisite in order to preach well, is to have a 
just, and, at the same time, a fixed and habitual view of the end 
of preaching. For in no art can any man execute well, who has 
not a just idea of the end and object of that art. The end of all 
preaching is, to persuade men to become good. Every sermon, 
therefore, should be a persuasive oration. Not but that the 
preacher is to instruct and to teach, to reason and argue. All 

* What I say here, and in other passages, of our being far from perfection in 
the art of preaching, and of there being few who are singularly eminent in it, ii 
to be always understood as referring to an ideal view of the perfection of this 
art, which none perhaps, since the days of the apostles, ever did, or ever wit 
reach. But in that degree of the eloquence of the pulpit, which promotes, in a 
considerable measure, the great end of edification, and gives a just title to high 
reputation and esteem, there are many who hold a very honourable rank. 1 
agree entirely in opinion with a candid judge (Dr. Campbell on Rhetoric, book 
i. ch. 10.) who observes, that considering how rare the talent of eloquence is 
among men, and considering all the disadvantages under which preachers labour, 
particularly from the frequency of this exercise, joined with the other duties of 
their office, to which fixed pastors are obliged, there is more reason to won- 
der that we hear so many instructive, and eten eloquent sermons, than that 
we hear so few. 



380 LECTURE XXIX. 

persuasion, as I showed formerly, is to be founded on conviction 
The understanding must always be applied to in the first place, in 
order to make a lasting impression on the heart; and he who would 
work on men's passions, or influence their practice, without 
first giving them just principles, and enlightening their minds, 
is no better than a mere declaimer. He may raise transient 
emotions, or kindle a passing ardour ; but can produce no solid 
or lasting effect. At the same time, it must be remembered, 
that all the preacher's instructions are to be of the practical 
kind: and that persuasion must ever be his ultimate object. 
It is not to discuss some abstruse point, that he ascends the 
pulpit. It is not to illustrate some metaphysical truth, or to 
inform men. of something which they never heard before ; but it is 
to make them better men ; it is to give them, at once, clear views, 
and persuasive impressions of religious truth. The eloquence 
of the pulpit, then, must be popular eloquence. One of the first 
qualities of preaching is to be popular ; not in the sense of ac- 
commodation to the humours and prejudices of the people 
(which tends only to make a preacher contemptible,) but, in the 
true sense of the word, calculated to make impression on the 
people ; to strike and to seize their hearts. I scruple not there- 
fore to assert, that the abstract and philosophical maimer of 
preaching, however it may have sometimes been admired, is 
formed upon a very faulty idea, and deviates widely from the 
just plan of pulpit eloquence. Rational, indeed, a preacher 
ought always to be ; he must give his audience clear ideas on 
every subject, and entertain them with sense, not with sound ; 
but to be an accurate reasoner will be small praise, if he be not 
a persuasive speaker also. 

Now, if this be the proper idea of a sermon, a persuasive 
oration, one very material consequence follows, that the preacher 
himself, in order to be successful, must be a good man. In a 
preceding lecture, I endeavoured to show, that on no subject 
can any man be truly eloquent, who does not utter the " verae 
voces ab imo pectore," who does not speak the language of his 
own conviction, and his own feelings. If this holds, as in my 
opinion it does, in other kinds of public speaking, it certainly 
holds in the highest degree in preaching. There, it is of the ut- 
most consequence that the speaker firmly believe both the truth 
and the importance of those principles which he inculcates 
on others ; and, not only that he believe them speculatively, 
but have a lively and serious feeling of them. This will 
always give an earnestness and strength, a fervour of 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 881 

piety to his exhortations, superior in its effects to all the arts of 
studied eloquence ; and, without it, the assistance of art will 
seldom be able to conceal the mere declaimer. A spirit of true 
piety would prove the most effectual guard against those errors 
which preachers are apt to commit. It would make their dis- 
courses solid, cogent, and useful ; it Would prevent those frivo- 
lous and ostentatious harangues which have no other aim than 
merely to make a parade of speech, or amuse an audience ; and 
perhaps the difficulty of attaining that pitch of habitual piety 
and goodness, which the perfection of pulpit eloquence would 
require, and of uniting it with that thorough knowledge of the 
world, and those other talents which are requisite for excelling 
in the pulpit, is one of the great causes why so few arrive at 
very high eminence in this sphere. 

The chief characteristics of the eloquence suited to the pul- 
pit, as distinguished from the other Icinds of public speaking, 
appear to me to be these two, gravity and warmth. The serious 
nature of the subjects belonging to the pulpit, requires gravity; 
their importance to mankind, requires warmth. It is far from 
being either easy or common to unite these characters of elo- 
quence. The grave, when it is predominant, is apt to run into 
a dull uniform solemnity. The warm, when it wants gravity, 
borders on the theatrical and light. The union of the two must 
be studied by all preachers as of the utmost consequence, both 
in the composition of their discourses, and in their manner of 
delivery. Gravity and warmth united, form that character of 
preaching which the French call onction ; the affecting, pene- 
trating, interesting manner, flowing from a strong sensibility of 
heart in the preacher to the importance of those truths which he 
delivers, and an earnest desire that they may make full impres- 
sion on the hearts of his hearers. 

Next to a just idea of the nature and object of pulpit elo- 
quence, the point of greatest importance to a preacher, is a 
proper choice of the subjects on which he preaches. To give 
rules for the choice of subjects for sermons, belongs to the 
theological more than to the rhetorical chair ; only, in general, 
they should be such as appear to the preacher to be the most 
useful, and the best accommodated to the circumstances of his 
audience. No man can be called eloquent, who speaks to an 
assembly on subjects, or in a strain, which none or few of them 
comprehend. The unmeaning applause which the ignorant give 
to what is above their capacity, common sense, and common 
probity, must teach every man to despise. Usefulness and true 



382 LECTURE XXIX. 

ploquence always go together : and no man can long be reputed 
a good preacher who is not acknowledged to be a useful qne. 

The rules which relate to the conduct of the different parts 
of a sermon, the introduction, division, argumentative, and 
pathetic parts, I reserve till I oome to treat of the conduct of a 
discourse in general ; but some rules and observations, which 
respect a sermon as a particular species of composition, I shall 
now give, and I hope they may be of some use. ) 

The first which J shall mention is, to attend to the unity of a 
jermon. Unity indeed is of great consequence in every compo- 
sition ; but in other discourses, where the choice and direction 
of the subject are not left to the speaker, it may be less in his 
power to preserve it. In a sermon, it must be always the 
preacher's own fault if he transgress it. What I mean by unity 
is, that there should be some one main point to which the whole 
strain of the sermon should refer. It must not be a bundle of 
different subjects strung together, but one object must predomi- 
nate throughout. This rule is founded on what we all experi- 
ence, that the mind can fully attend only to one capital object 
at a time. By dividing, you always weaken the impression. 
Now this unity, without which no sermon can either have much 
beauty, or much force, does not require that there should be no 
divisions or separate heads in the discourse, or that one single 
thought should be, again and again, turned up to the hearers in 
different lights. It is not to be understood in so narrow a sense : 
it admits of some variety ; it admits of underparts and appen- 
dages, provided always that so much union and connexion be 
preserved, as to make the whole concur in some one impression 
upon the mind. I may employ, for instance, several different 
arguments to enforce the love of God ; I may also inquire, per- 
haps, into the causes of the decay of this virtue ; still one great 
object is presented to the mind; but if, because my text sa\s, 
a He that loveth God, must love his brother also," I should, 
therefore, mingle in one discourse arguments for the love of 
God and for the love of our neighbour, I should offend unpar- 
donably against unity, and leave a very loose and confused im- 
pression on the hearers' minds. 

In the second place, sermons are always the more striking, 
and commonly the more useful, the more precise and particular 
the subject of them is. This follows, in a great measure, from 
what I was just now illustrating. Though a general subject is 
capable of being conducted with a considerable degree of unity, 
yet that unity can never be so complete as in a particular one 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 333 

The impression made must always be more undeterminate ; and 
the instruction conveyed will, commonly too, be less direct and 
convincing. General subjects, indeed, such as the excellency of 
the pleasures of religion, are often chosen by young preachers, 
as the most showy, and the easiest to be handled ; and doubtless, 
general views of religion are not to be neglected, as on several 
occasions they have great propriety. But these are not the 
subjects most favourable for producing the high effects of 
preaching. They fall in almost unavoidably with the beaten 
track of common-place thought. Attention is much more com- 
manded by seizing some particular view of a great subject, 
some single interesting topic, and directing to that point the 
whole force of argument and eloquence. To recommend some 
one grace or virtue, or to inveigh against a particular vice, fur- 
nishes a subject not deficient in unity or precision ; but if we 
confine ourselves to that virtue or vice as assuming a particular 
aspect, and consider it as it appears in certain characters, or 
affects certain situations in life, the subject becomes still more 
interesting. The execution is, I admit, more difficult, but the 
merit and the effect are higher. 

In the third place, never study to say all that can be said 
upon a subject ; no error is greater than this. Select the most 
useful, the most striking and persuasive topics which the text 
suggests, and rest the discourse upon these. If the doctrines 
which ministers of the Gospel preach were altogether new to 
their hearers, it might be requisite for them to be exceedingly 
full on every particular, lest there should be any hazard of their 
not affording complete information. But it is much less for the 
sake of information than of persuasion, that discourses are de- 
livered from the pulpit : and nothing is more opposite to persua- 
sion, than an unnecessary and tedious fulness. There are 
always some things which the preacher may suppose to be 
known, and some things which he may only slightly touch. If 
he seek to omit nothing which his subject suggests, it will una- 
voidably happen that he will encumber it, and weaken its force. 

In studying a sermon, he ought to place himself in the situa- 
tion of a serious hearer. Let him suppose the subject ad- 
dressed to himself: let him consider what views of it would 
strike him most; what arguments would be most likely to 
persuade him ; what parts of it would dwell most upon his 
mind. Let these be employed as his principal materials ; and 
in these it is most likely his genius will exert itself with the 
greatest vigour. The spinning and wire-drawing mode, which 



384 LECTURE XXIX 

is not uncommon among preachers, enervates the noblest truths 
It may indeed be a consequence of observing the rule which 
I am now giving, that fewer sermons will be preached upon 
one text than is sometimes done ; but this will, in my opinion, 
be attended with no disadvantage. I know no benefit that 
crises from introducing a whole system of religious truth under 
every text. The simplest and most natural method, by far, is 
to choose that view of a subject to which the text principally 
leads, and to dwell no longer on the text, than is sufficient for 
discussing the subject in that view, which can commonly be done 
with sufficient profoundness and distinctness, in one or a few 
discourses : for it is a very false notion to imagine, that they 
always preach the most profoundly, or go the deepest into a 
subject, who dwell on it the longest. On the contrary, that 
tedious circuit which some are ready to take in all their illus- 
trations, is very frequently owing, either to their want of dis- 
cernment for perceiving what is most important in the subject ; 
or to their want of ability for placing it in the most proper point 
of view. 

Jn the fourth place, study above all things to render your 
instructions interesting to the hearers. This is the great trial 
and mark of true genius for the eloquence of the pulpit : for 
nothing is so fatal to success in preaching, as a dry manner. 
A dry sermon can never be a good one. In order to preach in 
an interesting manner, much will depend upon the delivery of a 
discourse ; for the manner in which a man speaks, is of the 
utmost consequence for affecting his audience ; but much will 
also depend on the composition of the discourse. Correct lan- 
guage, and elegant description, are but the secondary instruments 
of preaching in an interesting manner. The great secret lies, 
in bringing home all that is spoken to the hearts of the hearers, 
so as to make every man think that the preacher is addressing 
him in particular. For this end, let him avoid all intricate rea- 
sonings ; avoid expressing himself in general speculative propo- 
sitions, or laying down practical truths in an abstract metaphysi- 
cal manner. As much as possible, the discourse ought to be 
carried on in the strain of direct address to the audience ; not 
in the strain of one writing an essay, but of one speaking to 
a multitude, and studying to mix what is called application, 
or what has an immediate reference to practice, with the doc- 
trinal and didactic parts of the sermon. 

It will be of much advantage to keep always in view the dif- 
ferent ages, characters, and conditions of men, and to accomino- 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 38-> 

dale directions and exhortations to these different classes ot 
hearers. Whenever you bring forth what a man (eels to touch 
his own character, or to suit his own circumstances, you are 
sure of interesting him. No study is more necessary for this 
purpose, than the study of human life, and the human heart. To 
be able to unfold the heart, and to discover a man to himself, i« 
a light in which he never saw his own character before, produces 
a wonderful effect. As long as the preacher hovers in a cloud 
of general observations, and descends not to trace the particular 
lines and features of manners, the audience are apt to think 
themselves unconcerned in the description. It is the striking 
accuracy of moral characters that gives the chief power and 
effect to a preacher's discourse. Hence, examples founded on 
historical facts, and drawn from real life, of which kind the 
Scriptures afford many, always, when they are well chosen, com- 
mand high attention. No favourable opportunity of introducing 
these should be omitted. They correct, in some degree, that 
disadvantage to which I before observed preaching is subject, of 
being confined to treat of qualities in the abstract, not of persons, 
and place the weight and reality of religious truths in the most 
convincing light. Perhaps the most beautiful, and among the 
most useful sermons of any, though, indeed, the most difficult 
in composition, are such as are wholly characteristical, or founded 
on the illustration of some peculiar character, or remarkable 
piece of history, in the sacred writings ; by pursuing which one 
oan trace, and lay open, some of the most secret windings of 
man's heart. Other topics of preaching have been much beaten; 
but this is a field, which, wide in itself, has hitherto been little 
explored by the composers of sermons, and possesses all the ad- 
vantages of being curious, new, and highly useful. Bishop 
Butler's sermon on the character of Balaam, will give an idea of 
that sort of preaching which I have in my eye. 

In the fifth and last place, let me add caution against tak- 
ing the model of preaching from particular fashions that chance 
to have the vogue. These are torrents that swell to-day, and 
will have spent themselves by to-morrow. .sometimes it is the 
taste nf poetical preaching, sometimes of philosophical, that has 
the fashion on its side ; at one time it must be all pathetic, 
at another time all argumentative, according as some celebrated 
preacher has set the example. Each of these modes, in the 
extreme, is very faulty ; and he who conforms himself to any 
of them, will both cramp genius, and corrupt it. It is the uni- 
Vf sal taste of mankind, which is subject to no such changing 

2 c 



38(1 LECTURE XXIX. 

modes, that alone is entitled to possess any authority ; and this 
will never give its sanction to any strain of preaching, but 
what is founded on human nature connected with usefulness, 
adapted to the proper idea of a sermon, as a serious persua- 
sive oration, delivered to a multitude in order to make them 
better men. Let a preacher form himself upon this standard, 
and keep it close in his eye, and he will be in a much surer 
road to reputation, and success at last, than by a servile com- 
pliance with any popular taste, or transient humour of his 
hearers. Truth and good sense are firm, and will establish 
themselves ; mode and humour are feeble and fluctuating. Let 
him never follow implicitly, any one example ; or become a ser- 
vile imitator of any preacher, however much admired. From 
various examples, he may pick up much for his improvement ; 
some he may prefer to the rest ; but the servility of imitation ex- 
tinguishes all genius, or rather is a proof of the entire want 
of genius. 

With respect to style, that which the pulpit requires, must 
certainly, in the first place, be very perspicuous. As discourses 
spoken there, are calculated for the instruction of all sorts of 
hearers, plainness and simplicity should reign in them. All un- 
usual, swoln, or high-sounding words, should be avoided ; es- 
pecially all words that are merely poetical, or merely philosophi- 
cal. Young preachers are apt to be caught with the glare of 
these ; and in young composers the error may be excusable ; 
but they may be assured that it is an error, and proceeds from 
their not having yet acquired a correct taste. Dignity of ex- 
pression, indeed, the pulpit requires in a high degree ; nothing 
that is mean or grovelling, no low or vulgar phrases, ought on 
any account to be admitted. But this dignity is perfectly con- 
sistent with simplicity. The words employed may be all plain 
words, easily understood, and in common use ; and yet the style 
may be abundantly dignified, and, at the same time, very lively 
and animated. For a lively and animated style is extremely 
suited to the pulpit. The earnestness which a preacher ought 
to feel, and the grandeur and importance of his subjects, justify 
and often require warm and glowing expressions. He not only 
may employ metaphors and comparisons, but, on proper oc- 
casions, may apostrophise the saint or the sinner ; may personify 
inanimate objects, break out into bold exclamations, and in gen- 
eral, has the command of the most passionate figures of speech. 
Dut on this subject, of the proper use and management of figures, 
T have insisted so fully in former lectures, that I have no occasion 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 387 

now to give particular directions ; unless it be only to recal to 
mind that most capital rule, never to employ strong figures, 
or a pathetic style, except in cases where the subject leads to 
them, and where the speaker is impelled to the use of them by 
native unaffected warmth. 

The language of sacred Scripture, properly employed, is a 
great ornament to sermons. It may be employed, either in the 
way of quotation, or allusion. Direct quotations, brought from 
Scripture, in order to support what the preacher inculcates, 
both give authority to his doctrine, and render his discourse 
more solemn and venerable. Allusions to remarkable passages, 
or expressions of Scripture, when introduced with propriety, 
have generally a pleasing effect. They afford the preacher a 
fund of metaphorical expression which no other composition en- 
joys, and by means of which he can vary and enliven his style. 
But he must take care that all such allusions be natural and 
easy ; for if they seem forced, they approach to the nature of 
conceits * 

In a sermon, no points or conceits should appear, no affected 
smartness and quaintness of expression. These derogate much 
from the dignity of the pulpit ; and give to a preacher the air of 
foppishness, which he ought, above all things to shun. It is 
rather a strong expressive style than a sparkling one that is to be 
studied. But we must beware of imagining that we render style 
strong or expressive, by a constant and multiplied use of epithets. 
This is a great error. Epithets have often great beauty and 
force. But if we introduce them into every sentence, and string 
many of them together to one object, in place of strengthening, 
we clog and enfeeble style ; in place of illustrating the image, 
we render it confused and indistinct. He that tells me " of this 

* Bishop Sherlock, when showing, that the views of reason have been enlarged, 
and the principles of natural religion illustrated, by the. discoveries of Chris- 
tianity, attacks unbelievers for the abuse they make of these advantages, in the 
following manner: " What a return do we make for those blessings we have re- 
ceived ! How disrespectfully do we treat the Gospel of Christ, to which we owe 
that clear light both of reason and nature which we now enjoy, when we endea- 
vour to set up reason and nature in opposition to it ! Ought the withered hand, 
which Christ has restored and made whole, to be lifted up against him ?" Vol. i. 
disc. 1. This allusion to a noted miracle of our Lord's, appears to me happy and 
elegant. Dr. Seed is remarkably fond of allusions to Scripture style ; but he 
sometimes employs such as are too fanciful and strained. As when he says 
(Serm. iv.) " No one great virtue will come single ; the virtues that be her fellows 
will bear her company with joy and gladness :" alluding to a passage in the forty- 
fifth Psalm, which relates to the virgins, the companions of the king's daughter. 
And (Serm. xiii.) having said, that the universities have justly been called the 
eyes of the nation, he adds, " and if the eyes of the uation be evil, the whole body 
if it must be full of darkness." 

2 c 2 



:W8 LECTURE XXIX. 

perishing, mutable, and transitory world ;" by all these three 
epithets, does not give me so strong an idea of what he would 
convey, as if he had used one of them with propriety, i con- 
clude tliis head with an advice, never to have what may be 
called a favourite expression ; for it shows affectation, and becomes 
disgusting. Let not any expression, which is remarkable for 
its lustre or beauty, occur twice in the same discourse. The 
repetition of it betrays a fondness to shine, and at the same time, 
carries the appearance of a barren invention. 

As to the question, whether it be most proper to write ser- 
mons fully, and commit them accurately to memory, or to study 
only the matter and thoughts, and trust the expression, in part 
at least, to the delivery ? I am of opinion, that no universal 
rule can here be given. The choice of either of these methods 
must be left to preachers, according to their different genius. 
The expressions which come warm and glowing from the mind, 
during the fervour of pronunciation, will often have a superior 
grace and energy to those which are studied in the retirement 
ef the closet. But then, this fluency and power of expression 
cannot, at all times, be depended upon, even by those of the 
readiest genius ; and by many can at no time be commanded, 
when overawed by the presence of an audience. It is proper 
therefore to begin, at least, the practice of preaching, with wri- 
ting as accurately as possible. This is absolutely necessary 
in the beginning in order to acquire the power and habit of 
correct speaking, nay, also of correct thinking, upon religious 
subjects. I am inclined to go further, and to say, that it is 
proper not only to begin thus, but also to continue, as long 
as the habits of industry last, in the practice both of writing 
and committing to memory. Relaxation in this particular is 
so common, and so ready to grow upon most speakers in the 
pulpit, that there is little occasion for giving any cautions 
against the extreme of overdoing in accuracy. 

Of pronunciation or delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. 
All that I shall now say upon this head is, that the practice of 
reading sermons, is one of the greatest obstacles to the elo- 
quence of the pulpit in Great Britain, where alone this prac- 
tice prevails. No discourse, which is designed to be persuasive, 
tan have the same force when read, as when spoken. The com- 
mon people all feel this, and their prejudice against this prac- 
tice is not without foundation in nature. What is gained 
hereby in point of correctness, is not equal, I apprehend, to 
what is lost in point of persuasion and force. They, whose 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 



300 



memories are not able to retain the whole of a discourse, 
might aid themselves considerably by short notes lying be- 
fore them, which would allow them to preserve, in a great 
measure, the freedom and ease of one who speaks. 

The French and English writers of sermons proceed upon 
very different ideas of the eloquence of the pulpit ; and seem 
indeed to have split it betwixt them. A French sermon is, for 
the most part, a warm animated exhortation ; an English one, 
is a piece of cool instructive reasoning. The French preachers 
address themselves chiefly to the imagination and the passions ; 
the English, almost solely to the understanding. It is the 
union of these two kinds of composition, of the French earnest- 
ness and warmth, with the English accuracy and reason, that 
would form, according to my idea, the model of a perfect ser- 
mon. A French sermon would sound in our ears as a florid, 
and, often, as an enthusiastic, harangue. The censure which, 
in fact, the French critics pass on the English preachers is, that 
they are philosophers and logicians, but not orators.* The de- 
fects of most of the French sermons are these : from a mode 
that prevails among them of taking their texts from the lesson 
of the day, the connection of the text with the subject is often 
unnatural and forced ;-f- their applications of Scripture are 
fanciful rather than instructive ; their method is stiff and cram- 
ped, by their practice of dividing their subject always either into 
three, or two, main points ; and their composition is in general 
too diffuse, and consists rather of a very few thoughts spread 
out, and highly wrought up, than of a rich variety of senti- 
ments. Admitting, however, all these defects, it cannot be de- 
nied, that their sermons are formed upon the idea of a persua- 
sive popular oration ; and therefore I am of opinion they may be 
read with benefit. 

Among the French Protestant divines, Saurin is the most 
distinguished : he is copious, eloquent, and devout, though too 
ostentatious in his manner. Among the Roman Catholics, the 
two most eminent are, Bourdaloue and Massillon. It is a sub- 
ject of dispute among the French critics, to which of these the 

* " Les sermons sont, suivant notre m6thode, de vrais discours oratoires ; et 
non pas, coinme chez les Anglois, des discussions mdtaphysiqucs plus convenables 
a une academie, qu'aux assemblies popnlaires qui se forment dans nos temples, 
et qu'il s'agit d'instruire des devoirs du Chretianisme, d'encourager, de consoler, 
d'edifier."-*-Ithetorique Francoise, par M. Crevier, torn. i. p. 134. 

t One of Massillon's best sermons, that on the coolness and languor with 
which Christians perform the duties of religion, is preached from Luke iv. 38. 
And he arose out of the synagogue, and entered into Simon's house : wd Siwm's uife's 
mother teas taken with a great fever 



390 LECTURE XXIX. 

preference is due, and each of them has his partisans. To Bour- 
daloue, they attribute more solidity and close reasoning ; to 
Massillon, a more pleasing and engaging manner. Bourdaloue 
is indeed a great reasoner, and inculcates his doctrines with 
much zeal, piety, and earnestness ; but his style is verbose, he 
is disagreeably full of quotations from the fathers, and he wants 
imagination. Massillon has more grace, more sentiment, and, 
in my opinion, every way more genius. He discovers much 
knowledge both of the world and of the human heart ; he is pa- 
thetic and persuasive ; and, upon the whole, is perhaps the most 
eloquent writer of sermons which modern times have produced.* 

• la order to give an idea of that kind of eloquence which is employed by 
the French preachers, I shall insert a passage from Massillon, which, in the 
Encyclopedic, (article Eloquence,) is extolled by Voltaire, who was the author 
of that article, as the chef-d'oeuvre, equal to any thing of which either ancient 
or modern times can boast. The subject of the sermon is, the small number of 
those who shall be saved. The strain of the whole discourse is extremely se- 
rious and animated; but when the orator came to the passage which follows, 
Voltaire informs us, that the whole assembly were moved; that by a sort of 
involuntary motion, they started up from their seats, and that such murmurs 
of surprise and acclamations arose, as disconcerted the speaker, though they 
increased the effect of his discourse. 

"Je m'arrete a vous, mes freres, qui fetes ici assembles. Je ne parle plus 
tin reste des homines ; je vous regarde comme si vous fetiez seuls sur la terre : 
voici la pensee qui m'occupe et qui m'epouvante. Je suppose que e'est ici 
votre dernifere heure, et la fin de l'univers ; que les cieux vont s'ouvrir sur vos 
tfetes, Jesus-Christ paroitre dans sa gloire au milieu de ce temple, et que vous 
n'y fetes assembles que pour l'attendre, comme des criminels tremblans, a qui 
Ton va pronoucer, ou une sentence de grace, ou un arret de morte feternelle. 
Car vous avez beau vous flatter ; vous mourrez tels que vous fetes aujourd'hui. 
Tous ces desirs de changement qui vous amusent, vous amuseront jnsqu'au 
lit de la mort : e'est l'experience de tous les siecles. Tout ce que vous trouverez 
alors en vous de nouveau, sera peut-etre un compte plus grand que celui que 
vous auriez aujourd'hui a rendre ; et sur ce que vous seriez, si Ton venoit vous 
juger dans ce moment, vous pouvez presque decider ce qui vous arrivera au 
sortir de la vie. 

" Or, je vous le demande, etje vous le demande frappd de terreur, ne sepa- 
rant pas en ce point mon sort du votre, et me mettant dans la mfeme disposition, 
ou je souhaite que vous entriez ; je vous demande, done, si Jesus-Christ parois- 
soit dans ce temple, au milieu de cette assemblfee, la plus auguste de l'univers, 
pour nous juger, pour faire la terrible discernement des boucs et des brebis, 
croyez-vous que le plus grand nombre de tout, ce que nous sommes ici, fut place 
a la droite? Croyez-vous que les choses du moins fussent fegales ? croyez- 
vous qui'il s'y tronvat settlement dix justes, que le Seigneur ne peut trouver 
autrefois en cinq villes toutes entieres ? Je vous le demande ; vous l'ignorez, 
et je l'ignore moi-mfeine. Vous seul, O mon Dieu ! connoissez, qui vous ap- 
partiennent. — Mes frferes, notre part est presque assurfee, et nous n'y pen- 
sons pas. Quand mfeme dans cette terrible separation qui se fera un jour, il 
lie devroit y avoir qu'un seul pecheur de cette assemblee du cotfe des reprouves, 
et qu'une voix du ciel viendroit nous en assurer dans ce temple, sans le designer ; 
qui de nous ne craindroit d'etre des malheureux? qui de nous ne retomberoit, 
d'abord sur sa conscience, pour examiner si ses crimes n'ont pas merite ce cha- 
timent? qui de nous, saisi defrayeur, ne demanderoit pas a Jfesus-Christ, comme 
autrefois les apotre.s ; Seigneur, ne seroit-ce pas moi ? Sommes-nous sages. 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 391 

During the period that preceded the restoration of King 
Charles II., the sermons of the English divines abounded with 
scholastic casuistical theology. They were full of minute divi- 
sions and subdivisions, and scraps of learning in the didactic 
part ; but to these were joined very warm pathetic addresses to 
the consciences of the hearers, in the applicatory part of the 
sermon. Upon the restoration, preaching assumed a more cor- 
rect and polished form. It became disencumbered from the pe- 
dantry and scholastic divisions of the sectaries ; but it threw 
out also their warm and pathetic addresses, and established it- 
self wholly upon the model of cool reasoning, and rational in- 
struction. As the dissenters from the church continued to pre- 
serve somewhat of the old strain of preaching, this led the 
established clergy to depart the farther from it. Whatever was 
earnest and passionate, either in the composition or delivery of 
sermons, was reckoned enthusiastic and fanatical ; and hence 
that argumentative manner, bordering on the dry and unpersua- 
sive, which is too generally the character of English sermons. 
Nothing can be more correct upon that model than many 
of them are ; but the model itself on which they are form- 
ed, is a confined and imperfect one. Dr. Clark, for in- 
stance, every where abounds in good sense, and the most clear 
and accurate reasoning ; his applications of Scripture are 
pertinent ; his style is always perspicuous, and often elegant ; 
he instructs and he convinces ; in what then is he deficient ? In 
nothing, except in the power of interesting and seizing the 
heart. He shows you what you ought to do ; but he excites not 
the desire of doing it : he treats man as if he were a being of 
pure intellect, without imagination or passions. Archbishop 



mes chers auditeurs? Peut-etre que parmi tous cenx qui m'entendent, il ne se 
trouvera pas dix jnstes ; peut-ctre s'cn trouvera-t-il encore moins. Que sais-je, 
O man Dieu ! je n'&se regarder d'un ceil fixe les abimes de vos jugemens et de 
votre justice ; peut-etre ne s'en trouvera-t-il qu'un seul ; et ce danger ne vous 
touche point, mon cher auditeur? et vons croyez £tre ce seul benreux dans le 
grand nombre qui pe>ira ? vous qui avez inoins sujet de le croire que tout 
autre ; vous sur qui seul la sentence de mort devroit tomber. Grand Dieu ! que 
Ton connut peu dans le monde les terrenrs de votre loi ! " &c— After this 
awakening and alarming exhortation, the orator comes with propriety to this 
practical improvement: "Mais que conclure de ces grandes verites? Qu'il 
fant desesperer de son salut? A Dieu ne plaise ; il n'y a que l'impie, qui pour 
se calmer sur ses desordres, tache ici de conclure en secret que tous les homme.s 
pei iront comme lui : ce ne doit pas etre la le fruit de ce discours : mais de vous 
detromper de cette erreur si universelle, qu'on peut faire ce que tous les autres 
font ; et que l'usage est une voie sure ; mais de vous convaiucre que pour se 
sauver, il fant se distinguer des autres ; etre singulier, vivre a part aii milieu du 
monde, et ne pas resemblcr a la fonle."— Sermons de Massillon, vol. iv. 






302 LECTURE XXIX. 

Tillotson's manner is more free and warm, and he approaches 
nearer than most of the English divines to the character of popu- 
lar speaking. Hence he is, to this day, one of the best models 
we have for preaching. We must not indeed consider him in 
the light of a perfect orator : his composition is too loose and 
remiss ; his style too feeble, and frequently too flat, to deserve 
that high character ; but there is in some of his sermons so much 
warmth and earnestness, and through them all there runs so 
much ease and perspicuity, such a vein of good sense and sin- 
cere piety, as justly entitle him to be held as eminent apreacher 
as England has produced. 

In Dr. Barrow, one admires more the prodigious fecundity 
of his invention, and the uncommon strength and force of his 
conceptions, than the felicity of his execution, or his talent in 
composition. We see a genius far surpassing the common, 
peculiar indeed almost to himself; but that genius often shoot- 
ing wild and unchastised by any discipline or study of elo- 
quence. 

I cannot attempt to give particular characters of that great 
number of writers of sermons which this and the former age have 
produced, among whom we meet with a variety of the most re- 
spectable names. We find in their composition much that de- 
serves praise ; a great display of abilities of different kinds, 
much good sense and piety, strong reasoning, sound divinity, 
and useful instruction ; though, in general, the degree of elo- 
quence bears not, perhaps, equal proportion to the goodness of 
the matter. Bishop Atterbury deserves to be particularly men- 
tioned as a model of correct and beautiful style, besides having 
the merit of a warmer and more eloquent strain of writing in 
some of his sermons, than is commonly met with. Had Bishop 
Butler, in place of abstract philosophical essays, given us 
more sermons in the strain of those two excellent ones which 
he has composed upon Self-deceit, and upon the character of 
Balaam, we should then have pointed him out as distinguished 
for that species of characteristical sermons which I before re- 
commended. 

Though the writings of the English divines are very proper 
to be read by such as are designed for the church, I must cau- 
tion them against making too much use of them, or transcribing 
large passages of them into the sermons they compose. Such 
as once indulge themselves in this practice, will never have any 
fund of their own. Infinitely better it is, to venture into the 
pulpit with thoughts and expressions Avhich have occurred to 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. TO3 

themselves, though of inferior beauty, than to disfigure their 
compositions by borrowed and ill-sorted ornaments, which, to a 
judicious eye, will be always in hazard of discovering their own 
poverty. When a preacher sits down to write on any subject, 
never let him begin with seeking to consult all who have written 
on the same text or subject. This, if he consult many, will throw 
perplexity and confusion into his ideas ; and, if he consults only 
one, will often warp him insensibly into his method, whether it 
be right or not. But let him begin with pondering the subject 
in his own thoughts ; let him endeavour to fetch materials from 
within ; to collect and arrange his ideas, and form some sort of 
a plan to himself, which it is always proper to put down in 
writing. Then, and not till then, he may inquire how others have 
treated the same subject. By this means, the method, and the 
leading thoughts in the sermon, are likely to be his own. These 
thoughts he may improve by comparing them with the track of 
sentiments which others have pursued ; some of their sense he 
may, without blame, incorporate into his composition ; retaining 
always his own words and style. This is fair assistance : all 
beyond is plagiarism. 

On the whole, never let the capital principle, with which we 
set out at first, be forgotten, — to keep close in view the great 
end for which a preacher mounts the pulpit ; even to infuse good 
dispositions into his hearers, to persuade them to sei've God, 
and to become better men. Let this always dwell on his mind 
when he is composing, and it will diffuse through his composi- 
tions that spirit which will render them at once esteemed and 
useful. The most useful preacher is always the best, and will 
not fail of being esteemed so. Embellish truth only, with a view 
to gain it the more full and free admission into your hearers' 
minds, and your ornaments will, in that case, be simple, mascu- 
line, natural. The best applause, by far, which a preacher can 
receive, arises from the serious and deep impressions which his 
discourse leaves on those who hear it. The finest encomium, 
perhaps, ever bestowed on a preacher, was given by Louis 
XIV. to the eloquent Bishop of Clermont, Father Massillon, 
whom I before mentioned with so much praise. After hear- 
ing him preach at Versailles, he said to him, " Father, I have 
heard many great orators in this chapel ; I have been highly 
pleased with them ; but for you, whenever I hear you, I go 
away displeased with myself; for I see more of my own 
character." 



304 



LECTURE XXX. 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A SERMON OF BISHOP 
ATTERBURY'S. 

The last lecture was employed in observations on the 
peculiar and distinguishing characters of the eloquence proper 
for the pulpit. But as rules and directions, when delivered in 
the abstract, are never so useful as when they are illustrated by 
particular instances, it may, perhaps, be of some benefit to 
those who are designed for the church, that I should analyze an 
English sermon, and consider the matter of it, together with the 
manner. For this purpose I have chosen Bishop Atterbury, as 
my example, who is deservedly accounted one of our most elo- 
quent writers of sermons, and whom I mentioned as such in the 
last lecture. At the same time, he is more distinguished for ele- 
gance and purity of expression, than for profoundness of thought. 
His style, though sometimes careless, is, upon the whole, neat 
and chaste ; and more beautiful than that of most writers of 
sermons. In his sentiments he is not only rational, but pious 
and devotional, which is a great excellency. The sermon which 
I have singled out, is, that upon Praise and Thanksgiving, the 
first sermon of the first volume, which is reckoned one of his 
best. In examining it, it is necessary that I should use full 
liberty, and, together with the beauties, point out any defects 
that occur to me in the matter, as well as in the style. 

Psalm 1. 14. Offer unto God thanksgiving. 

"* Among the many excellences of this pious collection of 
hymns, for which so particular a value hath been set upon it by 
the church of God in all ages, this is not the least, that the true 
price of duties is there justly stated : men are called off from 
resting in the outward show of religion, in ceremonies and 
ritual observances ; and taught rather to practise (that which 
was shadowed out by these rites, and to which they are designed 
to lead,) sound inward piety and virtue. 

" The several composers of these hymns were prophets ; per- 
sons whose business it was, not only to foretel events for the 
benefit of the church in succeeding times, but to correct and 
reform also what was amiss among that race of men with whom 
they lived and conversed; to preserve a foolish people from 
idolatry and false worship ; to rescue the. law from corrupt 



STYLE OF BISHOP ATTERBURY. 395 

glosses and superstitious abuses ; and to put men in mind of 
(what they are so willing to forget) that eternal and invaria- 
ble rule, which was before these positive duties, would continue 
after them, and was to be observed, even then, in preference to 
them. 

" The discharge, I say, of this part of the prophetic office 
taking up so much room in the book of Psalms, this hath been 
one reason, among many others, why they have always been so 
highly esteemed ; because we are from hence furnished with a 
proper reply to an argument commonly made use of by unbe- 
lievers, who look upon all revealed religions as piou,<\ frauds 
and impostures, on the account of the prejudices they lirnmon 1 - 
tertained in relation to that of the Jews ; the whole of which they 
first suppose to lie in external performances, and then easily 
persuade themselves, that God could never be the author of such 
a mere piece of pageantry and empty formality ; nor delight in a 
worship which consisted purely in a number of odd unaccount- 
able ceremonies. Which objection of theirs, we should not 
be able thoroughly to answer, unless we could prove (chiefly out 
of the Psalms, and other parts of the prophetic writings) that 
the Jewish religion was somewhat more than bare outside and 
show ; and that inward purity, and the devotion of the heart, 
was a duty then, as well as now." 

This appears to me an excellent introduction. Th j thought 
on which it rests is solid and judicious ; that in the book of 
Psalms, the attention of men is called to the moral and spiritual 
part of religion ; and the Jewish dispensation thereby vindicated 
from the suspicion of requiring nothing more from its votaries, 
than the observance of the external rites and ceremonies of the 
law. Such views of religion are proper to be often displayed ; 
and deserve to be insisted on by all who wish to render preach- 
ing conducive to the great purpose of promoting righteousness 
and virtue. The style, as far as we have gone, is not only free 
from faults, but elegant and happy. 

It is a great beauty in an introduction, when it can be made 
to turn on some thought, fully brought out and illustrated ; 
especially if that thought has a close connexion with the follow- 
ing discourse, and, at the same time, does not anticipate any 
thing that is afterwards to be introduced in a more proper place. 
This introduction of Atterbury's has all these advantages. The 
encomium which he makes on the strain of David's Psalms is 
not such as might as well have been prefixed to any other dis- 
course, the text of which was taken from any of the Psalms 



396 LECTURE XXX. 

Had tins been the case, the introduction would have lost much 
of its beauty We shall see from what follows, how naturally 
the introductory thought connects with his text, and how happily 
it ushers it in. 

K One great instance of this proof, we have in the words now 
before us, which are taken from a psalm of Asaph, written on 
purpose to set out the weakness and worthlessness of external 
performances, when compared with more substantial and vital 
duties. To enforce which doctrine, God himself is brought in 
as delivering it. * Hear, O my people, and I will speak ; O 
I? 5ft w |j n ad I will testify against thee : I. am God, even thy God.' 
The preface is very solemn, and therefore what it ushers in, we 
may be sure is of no common importance : ' I will not reprove 
thee for thy sacrifices or thy burnt-offerings, to have been con- 
tinually before me.' That is, I will not so reprove thee for any 
failures in thy sacrifices and burnt-offerings, as if these were the 
only, or the chief things I required of thee. ' I will take no bul- 
lock out of thy house, nor he-goat out of thy folds :' I prescribed 
not sacrifices to thee for my own sake, because I needed them ; 
' for every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle on a thou- 
sand hills.' Mine they are, and were, before I commanded thee 
to offer them to me ; so that, as it follows, ' If I were hungry, 
yet would I not tell thee ; for the world is mine, and the fulness 
thereof.' But can ye be so gross and senseless as to think me 
liable to hunger and thirst ? as to imagine that wants of that 
kind can touch me ? 'Will I eat the flesh of bulls, or drink the 
blood of goats ?' — Thus doth he expostulate severely with them, 
after the most graceful manner of the Eastern poetry. The 
issue of which is a plain and full resolution of the case, in those 
few words of the text, ' Offer unto God thanksgiving.' Would 
you do your homage the most agreeable way ? would you render 
the most acceptable of services ? ' Offer unto God thanks- 
giving.' " 

It is often a difficult matter to illustrate gracefully the text of 
a sermon from the context, and to point out the connexion be- 
tween them. This is a part of the discourse which is apt to 
become dry and tedious, especially when pursued into a minute 
commentary. And therefore, except as far as such illustration 
from the context is necessary for explaining the meaning, or in 
cases where it serves to give dignity and force to the text, I 
would advise that it be always treated with brevity. Sometimes 
it may even be wholly omitted, and the text assumed merely as 



STYLE OF BISHOP ATTERBURY. 307 

an independent proposition, if the connexion with the context be 
obscure, and would require a laborious explanation. In the 
present case, the illustration from the context is singularly 
happy. The passage of the psalm on which it is founded is 
noble and spirited, and connected in such a manner with the text, 
as to introduce it with a very striking emphasis. On the lan- 
guage I have little to observe, except that the phrase, " one great 
instance of this proof," is a clumsy expression. It was sufficient 
to have said, ' one great proof,' or ' one great instance of this.' 
In the same sentence, when he speaks of " setting out the weak- 
ness and worthlessness of external performances," we may ob- 
serve, that the word, K worthlessness," as it is now commonly 
used, signifies more than the deficiency of worth, which is all that 
the author means. It generally imports a considerable degree 
of badness or blame. It would be more proper, therefore, to say, 
the ' imperfection,' or the ' insignificancy,' of external perfor- 
mances." 

" The use I intend to make of these words is, from hence to 
raise some thoughts about that very excellent and important 
duly of praise and thanksgiving, a subject not unfit to be dis- 
coursed of at this time; whether we consider, either th? more 
than ordinary coldness that appears of late in men's tempers 
towards the practice of this (or any other) part of a warm and 
affecting devotion ; the great occasion of setting aside this par- 
ticular day in the calendar, some years ago ; or the new instances 
of mercy and goodness, which God hath lately been pleased to 
bestow upon us ; answering at last the many prayers and fast- 
ings, by which we have besought him so long for the establish- 
ment of their majesties' throne, and for the success of their 
arms ; and giving us, in his good time, an opportunity of ap- 
pearing before him in the more delightful part of our duty, 
5 with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that keep 
holidays.' " 

In this paragraph there is nothing remarkable ; no particular 
beauty or neatness of expression ; and the sentence which it 
forms is long and tiresome. — " To raise some thoughts about 
that very excellent," &c. is rather loose and awkward ; better, 
\ to recommend that very excellent,' &c. ; and when he mentions 
" setting aside" a particular day in the calendar, one would 
imagine, that ' setting apart' would have been more proper, as 
to ' set aside,' seems rather to suggest a different idea. 

" ' Offer unto God thanksgiving.' — Which that we may do, 



398 LECTURE XXX. 

let us inquire first, how we are to understand this command of 
offering praise and thanksgiving unto God : and then how rea- 
sonable it is that we should comply with it." 

This is the general division of the discourse. An excellent 
one it is, and corresponds to many subjects of this kind, where 
particular duties are to be treated of; first to explain, and then 
to recommend or enforce them. A division should always be 
simple and natural; and much depends on the proper view 
which it gives of the subject. 

" Our inquiry into what is meant here, will be very short ; 
for who is there, that understands any thing of religion, but 
knows, that the offering praise and thanks to God, implies, our 
having a lively and devout sense of his excellences, and of his 
benefits ; our recollecting them with humility and thankfulness 
of heart ; and our expressing these inward affections by suitable 
outward signs, by reverent and lowly postures of the body, by 
songs and hymns, and spiritual ejaculations ; either publicly or pri- 
vately ; either in the customary and daily service of the church, 
or in its more solemn assemblies, convened upon extraordinary 
occasions? This is the account which every Christian easily 
gives himself of it ; and which, therefore, it would be needless 
to enlarge upon. I shall only take notice upon this head, that 
praise and thanksgiving do, in strictness of speech, signify 
things somewhat different. Our praise properly terminates in 
God, on account of his natural excellences and perfections ; 
and is that act of devotion, by which we confess and admire his 
several attributes : but thanksgiving is a narrower duty, and im 
ports only a grateful sense and acknowledgment of past mercies 
We praise God for all his glorious acts of every kind, that re 
gard either us or other men ; for his very vengeance, and thoso 
' judgments' which he sometimes 'sends abroad in the earth; 
but we thank him, properly speaking, for the instances of his 
goodness alone ; and for such only of these, as we ourselves are 
some way concerned in. This, I say, is what the two words 
strictly imply ; but since the language of Scripture is generally 
less exact ; and useth either of them often to express the other 
by, I shall not think myself obliged, in what follows, thus nicely 
always to distinguish them." 

There was room for insisting more fully on the nature of the 
duty than the author has done under this head ; in particular, 
this was the place for correcting the mistake, to which men are 
always prone, of making thanksgiving to consist merel" in out- 



STYLE OF BISHOP ATTERBURY. 399 

ward expressions ; and for showing them, that the essence of 
the duty lies in the inward feelings of the heart. In general, it 
is of much use to give full and distinct explications of religious 
duties. But, as our author intended only one discourse on the 
subject, he could not enlarge with equal fulness on every part of 
it ; and he has chosen to dwell on that part on which indeed it is 
most necessary to enlarge, the motives enforcing the duty. For, 
as it is an easier matter to know, than to practise duty, the 
persuasive part of the discourse is that to which the speaker 
should always bend his chief strength. The account given in 
this head, of the nature of praise and thanksgiving, though short, 
is yet comprehensive and distinct, and the language is smooth 
and elegant. 

" Now the great reasonableness of this duty of praise or 
thanksgiving, and our several obligations to it, will appear, if we 
either consider it absolutely in itself, as the debt of our natures ; 
or ctmipare it with other duties, and shew the rank it bears 
among them ; or set out, in the last place, some of its peculiar 
properties and advantages, with regard to the devout performer 
of it." 

The author here enters upon the main part of his subject, 
the reasonableness of the duty, and mentions three arguments 
for proving it. These are well stated, and are in themselves 
proper and weighty considerations. How far he has handled 
each of them to advantage, will appear as we proceed. I can- 
not, however, but think that he has omitted one very material 
part of the argument, which was to have shown the obligations 
we are under to this duty, from the various subjects of thanks- 
giving afforded us by the divine goodness. This would have led 
him to review the chief benefits of creation^ providence, and re- 
demption : and certainly, they are these which lay the foundation 
of the whole argument for thanksgiving. The heart must first 
be affected with a suitable sense of the divine benefits, before 
one can be excited to praise God. If you would persuade me 
to be thankful to a benefactor, you must not employ such con- 
siderations merely as those upon which the author here rests, 
taken from gratitude's being the law of my nature, or bearing a 
high rank among moral duties, or being attended with peculiar 
advantages. These are considerations but of a secondary nature. 
You must begin with setting before me all that my friend has 
done for me, if you mean to touch my heart, and to call forth 
the emotions of gratitude. The case is perfectly similar, when 



400 LECTURE XXX. 

we are exhorted to give thanks to God ; and, therefore, in giving 
a full view of the subject, the blessings conferred on us by divine 
goodness should have been taken into the argument. 

It may be said, however, in apology for our author, that this 
would have led him into too wide a field for one discourse, and 
into a field also, which is difficult, because so beaten, the enu- 
meration of the divine benefits. He, therefore, seems to take it 
for granted, that we have upon our minds a just sense of these 
benefits. He assumes them as known and acknowledged ; and 
setting aside what may be called the pathetic part of the subject, 
or what was calculated to warm the heart, he goes on to the 
reasoning part. In this management, I cannot altogether blame 
him. I do not by any means say that it is necessary in every 
discourse to take in all that belongs to the doctrine of which we 
treat. Many a discourse is spoiled, by attempting to render it 
too copious and comprehensive. The preacher may, without 
reprehension, take up any part of a great subject to which his 
genius at the time leads him, and make that his theme. But 
when he omits any thing which may be thought essential, he 
ought to give notice, that this is a part, which for the time he 
lays aside. Something of this sort would perhaps have been 
proper here. Our author might have begun by saying, that the 
reasonableness of this duty must appear to every thinking being, 
who reflects upon the infinite obligations which are laid upon us, 
by creating, preserving, and redeeming love ; and after taking 
notice that the field which these open, was too wide for him to 
enter upon at that time, have proceeded to his other heads. 
Let us now consider these separately. 

" The duty of praise and thanksgiving, considered absolutely 
in itself, is, I say, the debt and law of our nature. We had 
such faculties bestowed on us by our Creator, as made us capa- 
ble of satisfying this debt, and obeying this law ; and they never, 
therefore, work more naturally and freely, than when they are 
thus employed. 

" It is one of the earliest instructions given us by philosophy, 
and which has ever since been approved and inculcated by the 
wisest men of all ages, that the original design of making man 
was, that he might praise and honour him who made him. 
When God had finished this goodly frame of things we call 
the world, and put together the several parts of it according to 
his infinite wisdom, in exact number, weight, and measure, there 
was still wanting a creature, in these lower regions, that could 
apprehend the beauty, order, and exquisite contrivance of it : 



BISHOP ATTERBURY'S STYLE. 401 

that from contemplating the gift, might be able to raise itself 
to the great Giver, and do honour to all his attributes. Every 
thing indeed that God made, did, in some sense, glorify its 
Author, inasmuch as it carried upon it the plain mark and im- 
press of the Deity, and was an effect worthy of that first cause 
from whence it flowed ; and thus might the heavens be said, at 
the first moment in which they stood forth, ' to declare his glory, 
and the firmament to show his handy work.' But this was an im- 
perfect and defective glory ; the sign was of no signification 
here below, whilst there was no one here as yet to take notice 
of it : Man, therefore, was formed to supply this want, endowed 
with powers fit to find out and to acknowledge these unlimit 
ed perfections ; and then put into this temple of God, this lower 
world, as the priest of nature, to offer up the incense of thanks 
and praise for the mute and insensible part of the creation. 

" This, I say, hath been the opinion all along of the most 
thoughtful men down from the most ancient times : and though 
it be not demonstrative, yet it is what we cannot but judge 
highly reasonable, if we do but allow, that man was made for 
some end or other ; and that he is capable of perceiving that 
end. For, then, let us search and inquire never so much, we 
shall find no other account of him that we can rest upon so 
well. If we say, that he was made purely for the good plea- 
sure of God ; this is, in effect, to say, that he was made for no 
determinate end ; or for none, at least, that we can discern. If 
we say, that he was designed as an instance of the wisdom, and 
power, and goodness of God ; this, indeed, may be the reason 
of his being in general ; for it is the common reason of the being 
of every thing besides. But it gives no account, why he was 
made such a thing as he is, a reflecting, thoughtful, inquisitive 
being. The particular reason of this seems most aptly to be 
drawn from the praise and honour that was (not only to redound 
to God from him, but) to be given to God by him." 

The thought which runs through all this passage, of man's 
being the priest of nature, and of his existence being calculated 
chiefly for this end, that he might offer up the praises of the 
mute part of the creation, is an ingenious thought, and well 
illusfrated. It was a favourite idea among some of the ancient 
philosophers ; and it is not the worse on that account, as it 
thereby appears to have been a natural sentiment of the human 
mind. In composing a sermon, however, it might have been 
better to have introduced it as a sort of collateral argument, or 

2 D 



402 LECTURE XXX. 

an incidental illustration, than to have displayed it with so much 
pomp, and to have placed it in the front of the arguments for 
this duty. It does not seem to me, when placed in this station^ 
to bear all the stress which the author lays upon it. When the 
divine goodness brought man into existence, we cannot well 
conceive that its chief purpose was, to form a being who might 
sing praises to his Maker. Prompted by infinite benevolence, 
the supreme Creator formed the human race, that they might 
rise to happiness, and to the enjoyment of himself, through a 
course of virtue, or proper action. The sentiment on which our 
author dwells, however beautiful, appears too loose and rhetori- 
cal, to be a principal head of discourse 

" This duty, therefore, is the debt and law of our nature. 
And it. will more distinctly appear to be such, if we consider the 
two ruling faculties of our mind, the understanding and the will 
apart, in both which it is deeply bounded : in the understanding, 
as in the principle of reason, which owns and acknowledges it ; 
in the will, as in the fountain of gratitude and return, which 
prompts, and even constrains us to pay it. 

u Reason was given us as a rule and measure, by the help 
of which we were to proportion our esteem of every thing, 
according to the degrees of perfection and goodness which 
we found therein. It cannot, therefore, if it doth its office 
at all, but apprehend God as the best and most perfect being ; 
it must needs see and own and admire his infinite perfec- 
tions. And this is what is strictly meant by praise; which, 
therefore, is expressed in Scripture, by confessing to God 
and acknowledging him ; by ascribing to him what is his due ; 
and, as far as this sense of the word reaches, it is impos- 
sible to think of God without praising him; for it depends 
not on the understanding, how it shall apprehend things, any 
more than it doth on the eye, how visible objects shall appear 
to it 

" The duty takes the further and surer hold of us, by the 
means of the will, and that strong bent towards gratitude, which 
the Author of our nature hath implanted in it. There is not a 
more active principle than this in the mind of man ; and surely 
that which deserves its utmost force, and should set all its 
springs a-work, is God ; the great and universal Benefactor, 
from whom alone we received whatever we either have, or are, 
and to whom we can possibly repay nothing but our praises, or 
to speak more properly on this head, and according to the 
strict import of the wor our thanksgiving. ' Who hath first 



BISHOP ATTERBURVS STYLE. 



403 



given to God,' (saith the great apostle in his usual figure) ' and it 
shall be recompensed unto him again V A gift, it seems, always 
requires a recompense : nay, ' but of him, and through him, and 
to him, are all things : of him,' as the Author ; ' through him,' 
as the Preserver and Governor ; ' to him/ as the end and perfec- 
tion of all things : ' to whom therefore' (as it follows), be glory 
for ever. Amen !" 

I cannot much approve of the light in which our author 
places his argument in these paragraphs. There is something 
too metaphysical and refined, in his deducing, in this manner, the 
obligation to thanksgiving, from the two faculties of the mind, 
understanding and will. Though what he says be in itself just., 
yet the argument is not sufficiently plain and striking. Argu- 
ments in sermons, especially on subjects that so naturally and 
easily suggest them, should be palpable and popular : should not 
be brought from topics that appear far sought, but should di- 
rectly address the heart and feelings. The preacher ought 
never to depart too far from the common ways of thinking, and 
expressing himself. I am inclined to think, that this whole head 
might have been improved, if the author had taken up more 
obvious ground ; had stated gratitude as one of the most natu- 
ral principles of the human heart ; had illustrated this, by show- 
ing how odious the opposite disposition is, and with what 
general consent men, in all ages, have agreed in hating and con- 
demning the ungrateful ; and then, applying these reasonings to 
the present case, had placed in a strong view that entire corrup- 
tion of moral sentiment which it discovers, to be destitute of 
thankful emotions towards the supreme Benefactor of mankind. 
As the most natural method of giving vent to grateful sen- 
timents is by external expressions of thanksgiving, he might 
then have answered the objection that is apt to occur, of the ex 
pression of our praise being insignificant to the Almighty. But, 
by seeking to be too refined in his argument, he has omittec 
some of the most striking and obvious considerations, and which 
properly displayed, would have afforded as great a field foi 
eloquence, as the topics which he has chosen. He goes on : 

" Gratitude consists in an equal return of benefits, if we are 
able ; of thanks, if we are not : which thanks, therefore, must 
rise always in proportion as the favours received are great, and 
the receiver incapable of making any other sort of requital. 
Now, since no man hath benefitted God at any time and 
yet every man, in each moment of his life, is continually bene- 

2 D 2 



404 LECTURE XXX. 

fitted by him, what strong obligations must we neeos be under to 
thank him ! It is true, our thanks are really as insignificant to 
him, as any other kind of return would be ; in themselves, 
indeed, they are worthless ; but his goodness hath put a value 
upon them : he hath declared, he will accept them in lieu of the 
vast debt we owe ; and after that, which is fittest for us, to 
dispute how they came to be taken as an equivalent, or to pay 
them ? 

" It is, therefore, the voice of nature (as far as gratitude 
itself is so), that the good things we receive from above should 
be sent back again thither in thanks and praises ; ' as the 
rivers run into the sea, to the place' (the ocean of beneficence) 
' from whence the rivers come, thither should they return 
again.' " 

In these paragraphs he has, indeed, touched some of the con- 
siderations which I mentioned : but he has only touched them : 
whereas, with advantage, they might have formed the main body 
of his argument. 

u We have considered the duty absolutely; we are now 
to compare it with others, and to see what rank it bears among 
them. And here we shall find, that, among all the acts of religion 
immediately addressed to God, this is much the noblest and 
most excellent ; as it must needs be, if what hath been laid down 
be allowed, that the end of man's creation was to praise and 
glorify God. For that cannot but be the most noble and excel- 
lent act of any being, which best answers the end and design of 
it. Other parts of devotion, such as confession and prayer, seem 
not originally to have been designed for man, nor man for them 
They imply guilt and want, with which the state of innocence was 
not acquainted. Had man continued in that estate, his worship 
(like the devotions of angels) had been paid to heaven in pure 
acts of thanksgiving ; and nothing had been left for him to do, 
beyond the enjoying the good things of life, as nature directed, 
and praising the God of nature, who bestowed them. But being 
fallen from innocence and abundance ; having contracted guilt, 
and forfeited his right to all sorts of mercies ; prayer and con- 
fession became necessary, for a time, to retrieve the loss, and to 
restore him to that state wherein he should be able to live with- 
out them. These are fitted, therefore, for a lower dispensation ; 
before which, in Paradise, there was nothing but praise, and 
after which, there shall be nothing but that in heaven. Our per- 
fect state did at first, and will at last, consist in the performance 



BISHOP ATTERBUJIY'S STYLE. 405 

of this duty ; and herein, therefore, lies the excellence and the 
honour of our nature. 

" It is the same way of reasoning, by which the apostle hath 
given the preference to charity, beyond faith and hope, and 
every spiritual gift. ' Charity never faileth,' saith he ; mean- 
ing that it is not a virtue useful only in this life ; but will accom- 
pany us also into the next : ' but whether there be prophecies, 
they shall fail ; whether there be tongues, they shall cease ; whe- 
ther there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.' These are 
gifts of a temporary advantage, and shall all perish in the using. 
'For we know in part, and we prophesy inypart ;' our present 
state is imperfect, and, therefore, what belongs to that, and only 
that, must be imperfect too. 'But when that which is perfect is 
come, then that which is in part shall be done away.' The argu- 
ment of St. Paul, we see, which sets charity above the rest of 
Christian graces, will give praise also the pre-eminence over 
all the parts of the Christian worship ; and we may conclude 
our reasoning therefore, as he doth his : *■ And now abideth 
confession, prayer, and praise, these three ; but the greatest of 
these is praise." 

The author, here, enters on the second part of his argument, 
the high rank which thanksgiving holds, when compared with 
other duties of religion. This he handles with much eloquence 
and beauty. His idea, that this was the original worship of 
man before his fall rendered other duties requisite, and shall 
continue to be his worship in heaven, when the duties which 
are occasioned by a consciousness of guilt shall have no place, is 
solid and just; his illustration of it is very happy; and the 
style extremely flowing and sweet. Seldom do we meet with 
any piece of composition in sermons, that has more merit than 
this head. 

" It is so, certainly, on other accounts, as well as this ; par- 
ticularly, as it is the most disinterested branch of our religious 
service ; such as hath the most of God, and the least of ourselves 
in it, of any we pay ; and therefore approaches the nearest of 
any to a pure, and free, and perfect act of homage. For though 
a good action doth not grow immediately worthless by being 
done with the prospect of advantage, as some have strangely im- 
agined ; yet it will be allowed, I suppose, that its being done, 
without the mixture of that end, or with as little of it as possible, 
recommends it so much the more, and raises the price of it. 
' Doth Job fear God for nought ?' was an objection of Satan ; 



00 LECTURE XXX. 

which implied that those duties were most valuable, wliere our 
own interest was least aimed at : and God seems, by the commis- 
sion he then gave Satan, to try experiments upon Job, thus far 
to have allowed his plea. Now our requests for future, and even 
our acknowledgements of past mercies, centre purely in our- 
selves ; our own interest is the direct aim of them. But praise 
is a generous and unmercenary principle, which proposes no 
other end to itself, but to do, as is fit for a creature endowed 
with such faculties to do, towards the most perfect and benefi- 
cent of beings ; and to pay the willing tribute of honour there, 
where the voice of reason directs us to pay it. God hath, in- 
deed, annexed a blessing to the duty ; and when we know this, 
we cannot choose, while we are performing the duty, but have 
some regard to the blessing which belongs to it. However, 
that is not the direct aim of our devotions, nor was it the first 
motive that stirred us up to them. Had it been so, we should 
naturally have betaken ourselves to prayer, and breathed out 
our desires in that form wherein they are most properly con- 
veyed. 

" In short, praise is our most excellent work, a work com- 
mon to the church triumphant and militant, and which lifts us up 
into communion and fellowship with angels. The matter about 
which it is conversant, is always the perfection of God's nature ; 
and the act itself, is the perfection of ours." 

Our author's second illustration, is taken from praise being 
the most disenterested act of homage. This he explains justly 
and elegantly ; though perhaps, the consideration is rather 
too thin and refined for enforcing religious duties ; as crea- 
tures, such as we, in approaching to the divine presence, 
can never be supposed to lay aside all consideration of 
our own wants and necessities ; and certainly are not required 
(as the author admits) to divest ourselves of such regards. 
The concluding sentence of this head is elegant and happily 
expressed. 

" I come now, in the last place, to set out some of its pecu- 
liar properties and advantages, which recommend it to the devout 
performer. And, 

"1. It is the most pleasing part of our devotions: it proceeds 
always from a lively cheerful temper of mind, and it cherishes 
and improves what it proceeds from. ' For it is good to sing 
praises unto our God/ (says one whose experience, in this case, 
we may rely upon,) ' for it is pleasant, and praise is comely.' 



BISHOP ATTERBURY'S STYLE. 



407 



Petition and confession are the language of the indigent and the 
guilty, the breathings of a sad and contrite spirit : ' Is any af- 
flicted ? let him pray ;' but, ' Is any merry ? let him sirg psalms.' 
The most usual and natural way of men's expressing the mirth of 
their hearts is in a song, and songs are the very language of 
praise ; to the expressing of which they are in a peculiar man- 
ner appropriated, and are scarce of any other use in religion. 
Indeed, the whole composition of this duty is such, as through- 
out speaks ease and delight to the mind. It proceeds from love 
and from thankfulness : from love, the fountain of pleasure, the 
passion which gives every thing we do, or enjoy, its relish and 
agreeableness. From thankfulness, which involves in it the me- 
mory of past benefits, the actual presence of them to the mind, 
and the repeated enjoyment of them. And as is its principle, 
such is its end also : for it procureth quiet and ease to the mind, 
by doing somewhat towards satisfying that debt which it labours 
under ; by delivering it to those thoughts of praise and grati- 
tude, those exultations it is so full of; and which would grow 
uneasy and troublesome to it if they were kept in. If the thank- 
ful ' refrained, it would be pain and grief' to them ; but then, 
then ' is their soul satisfied as with marrow and fatness, when 
their mouth praiseth God with joyful lips.'" 

In beginning this head of discourse, the expression which the 
author uses, " to set out some of its peculiar properties and ad- 
vantages," would now be reckoned not so proper an expres- 
sion, as " to point out," or " to shew." The first subdivision, 
concerning praise being the most pleasant part of devotion, is 
very just and well expressed, as far as it goes ; but seems to me 
rather defective. Much more might have been said, upon the 
pleasure that accompanies such exalted acts of devotion. It 
was a cold thought, to dwell upon its disburdening the mind of 
a debt. The author should have insisted more upon the influence 
of praise and thanksgiving, in warming, gladdening, soothing 
the mind ; lifting it above the world, to dwell among divine and 
eternal objects. He should have described the peace and joy 
which then expand the heart ; the relief which this exercise pro- 
cures from the cares and agitations of life; the encouraging 
views of Providence to which it leads our attention ; and the 
trust which it promotes in the divine mercy for the future, by the 
commemoration of benefits past. In short, this was the place 
for his pouring out a greater flow of devotional sentiments than 
what we here find. 



40B LECTURE XXX. 

" 2. It is another distinguishing property of divine praise, that 
it enlargeth the powers and capacities of our souls, turning them 
from low and little things, upon their greatest and noblest object, 
the divine nature, and employing them in the discovery and ad- 
miration of those several perfections that adorn it. We see 
what difference there is between man and man, such as there is 
hardly greater between man and beast : and this proceeds chiefly 
from the different sphere of thought which they act in, and the 
different objects they converse with. The mind is essentially the 
same in the peasant and the prince : the force of it naturally 
equal, in the untaught man, and the philosopher ; only the one 
of these is busied in mean affairs, and within narrower bounds ; 
the other exercises himself in things of weight and moment; and 
this it is, that puts the wide distance between them. Noble ob- 
jects are to the mind, what the sunbeams are to a bud or flower ; 
they open and unfold as it were the leaves of it ; put it upon 
exerting and spreading itself every way ; and call forth all those 
powers that lie hid and locked up in it. The praise and admi- 
ration of God, therefore, bring this advantage along with 
it, that it sets our faculties upon their full stretch, and im- 
proves them to all the degrees of perfection of which they are 
capable." 

This head is just, well expressed, and to censure it might 
appear hypercritical. Some of the expressions, however, one 
would think, might be amended. The simile, for instance, 
about the effects of the sunbeams upon the bud or flower, is pretty, 
but not correctly expressed. " They open and unfold, as it 
were, the leaves of it." If this is to be literally applied to the 
flower, the phrase, " as it were," is needless ; if it is to be meta- 
phorically understood, (which appears to be the case,) the ' leaves 
of the mind,' is harsh language ; besides that, " put it upon ex- 
erting itself," it is rather a low expression. Nothing is more 
nice than to manage properly such similes and allusions, so as to 
preserve them perfectly correct, and at the same time to render 
the image lively : it might perhaps be amended in some such way 
as this : 'As the sunbeams open the bud, and unfold the leaves 
of a flower, noble objects have a like effect upon the mind : they 
expand and spread it, and call forth those powers that before 
lay hid and locked up in the soul.' 

" 3. It farther promotes in us an exquisite sense of God's hon- 
our, and a high indignation of mind at every thing that openly 



BISHOP ATTERBURY'S STYLE. 



409 



profanes it. For what we value and delight in, we cannot with 
patience hear slighted or abused. Our own praises, which we 
are constantly putting up, will be a spur to us towards procuring 
and promoting the divine glory in every other instance ; and will 
make us set our faces against all open and avowed impieties ; 
which, methinks, should be considered a little by such as would 
be thought not to be wanting in this duty, and yet are often silent 
under the foulest dishonours done to religion, and its great Author: 
for tamely to hear God's name and worship vilified by others, is 
no very good argument that we have been used to honour and 
reverence him, in good earnest, ourselves." 

The thought here is well founded, though it is carelessly 
and loosely brought out. The sentence, " our own praises* 
which we are constantly putting up, will be a spur to us 
towards procuring and promoting the divine glory in every 
other instance," is both negligent in language, and ambiguous 
in meaning, for " our own praises," properly signifies the praises 
of ourselves. Much better if he had said, ' Those devout 
praises which we constantly offer up to the Almighty, will 
naturally prompt us to promote the divine glory in every other 
instance.' 

* 4. It will, beyond all this, work in us a deep humility and 
consciousness of our own imperfections. Upon a frequent atten- 
tion to God and his attributes, we shall easily discover our own 
weakness and emptiness ; our swelling thoughts of ourselves will 
abate, and we shall see and feel that we are ' altogether lighter 
to be laid in the balance than vanity ;' and this is a lesson which, 
to the greatest part of mankind, is, I think, very well worth learn- 
ing. We are naturally presumptuous and vain ; full of ourselves* 
and regardless of every thing besides, especially when some lit- 
tle outward privileges distinguish us from the rest of mankind j 
then, it is odds, but we look into ourselves with great degrees of 
complacency, ' and are wiser,' (and better every way) ' in our 
own conceit, than seven men that can render a reason.' Now 
nothing will contribute so much to the cure of this vanity, as a due 
attention to God's excellencies and perfections. By comparing 
these with those which we imagine belong to us, we shall learn, 
• not to think more highly of ourselves, than we ought to think of 
ourselves,' but ' to think soberly ; we shall find more satisfaction 
in looking upwards, and humbling ourselves before our common 
Creator, than in casting our eyes downward with scorn upon our 
fellow-creatures, and setting at nought any part of the work of 



410 LECTURE XXX. 

his hands. The vast distance we are at from real and infinite 
worth, will astonish us so much, that we shall not be tempted to 
value ourselves upon these lesser degrees of pre-eminence, which 
custom or opinion, or some little accidental advantages, have 
given us over other men." 

Though the thought here also be just, yet a like deficiency in 
elegance and beauty appears. The phrase, " it is odds but we 
look into ourselves, with great degrees of complacency," is much 
too low and colloquial for a sermon — he might have said, ' we 
are likely,' or ' we are prone' to look into ourselves.. — " Compar- 
ing these with those which we imagine belong to us," is also very 
careless style. — 'By comparing these with the virtues and abili- 
ties which we ascribe to ourselves, we shall learn' — would have 
been purer and more correct 

" 5. I shall mention but one use of it more, and it is this ; 
that a conscientious praise of God will keep us back from all 
false and mean praise, all fulsome and servile flatteries, such as 
are in use among men. Praising, as it is commonly managed, is 
nothing else but a trial of skill upon a man, how many good 
things we can possibly say of him. All the treasures of oratory 
are ransacked, and all the fine things that ever were said, are 
heaped together for his sake ; and no matter whether it belongs 
to him or not ; so there be but enough on't. Which is one de- 
plorable instance, among a thousand, of the baseness of human 
nature, of its small regard to truth and justice ; to right or wrong ; 
to what is, or is not to be praised. But he who hath a deep sense 
of the excellencies of God upon his heart will make a God of 
nothing besides. He will give every one his just encomium, 
honour where honour is due, and as much as is due, because it is 
his duty to do so ; but the honour of God will suffer him to 
go no further. Which rule, if it had been observed, a neigh- 
bouring prince (who now, God be thanked, needs flattery a 
great deal more than ever he did) would have wanted a great 
deal of that incense which hath been offered up to him by his 
adorers." 

This head appears scarcely to deserve any place among the 
more important topics that naturally presented themselves on this 
subject; at least, it had much better have wanted the application 
which the author makes of his reasoning to the flatterers of Louis 
XIV. ; and the thanks which he offers to God, for the affairs of 
tliat prince being in so low a state, that he now needed flattery 






BISHOP ATTERBURY'S STYLE. 411 

more than ever. This political satire is altogether out of place 
and unworthy of the subject. 

One would be inclined to think upon reviewing our author's 
arguments, that he has overlooked some topics, respecting the 
happy consequences of this duty, of full as much importance as 
any that he has inserted. Particularly, he ought not to have 
omitted the happy tendency of praise and thanksgiving, to 
strengthen good dispositions in the heart ; to promote love to 
God, and imitation of those perfections which we adore ; and to 
infuse a spirit of ardour and zeal into the whole of religion, as 
the service of our Benefactor. These are consequences which 
naturally follow from the proper performance of this duty ; and 
which ought not to have been omitted ; as no opportunity should 
be lost of showing the good effect of devotion on practical religion 
and moral virtue ; and pointing out the necessary connection of 
the one with the other. For certainly the great end of preaching 
is, to make men better in all the relations of life, and to pro- 
mote that complete reformation of heart and conduct in which true 
Christianity consists. Our author, however, upon the whole, is 
not deficient in such views of religion ; for in his general strain 
of preaching, as he is extremely pious, so he is, at the same time, 
practical and moral. 

His summing up of the whole argument, in the next para- 
graph, is elegant and beautiful ; and such concluding views of 
the subject are frequently very proper and useful : " Upon these 
grounds doth the duty of praise stand, and these are the obliga- 
tions that bind us to the performance of it. It is the end of our 
being, and the very rule and law of our nature ; flowing from 
the two great fountains of human action, the understanding, 
and the will, naturally, and almost necessarily. It is the most 
excellent part of our religious worship ; enduring to eternity, 
after the rest shall be done, away ; and paid even now, in the 
frankest manner, with the least regard to our own interest It 
recommends itself to us by several peculiar properties and 
advantages ; as it carries more pleasure in it, than all other 
kinds of devotion ; as it enlarges and exalts the several powers 
of the mind ; as it breeds in us an exquisite sense of God's hon- 
our, and a willingness to promote it in the world j as it teaches 
us to be humble and lowly ourselves, and yet preserves us from 
base and sordid flattery, from bestowing mean and undue praises 
upon others." 

After this, our author addresses himself to two classes of men, 



/ 



412 LECTURE XXXI. 

the careless and the profane. His address to the careless is 
beautiful and pathetic ; that to the profane, is not so well ex- 
ecuted, and is liable to some objection. Such addresses ap- 
pear to me to be, on several occasions, very useful parts of a 
discourse. They prevailed much in the strain of preaching 
before the Restoration ; and, perhaps, since that period, have 
been too much neglected. They afford an opportunity of 
bringing home to the consciences of the audience, many things, 
which, in the course of the sermon, were, perhaps, delivered in 
the abstract. 

I shall not dwell on the conclusion of the sermon, which 
is chiefly employed in observations on the posture of public 
affairs' at that time. Considered upon the whole, this dis- 
course of Bishop Atterbury's is both useful and beautiful, 
though I have ventured to point out some defects in it. Sel- 
dom, or never, can we expect to meet with a composition of any 
kind, which is absolutely perfect in all its parts : and when 
we take into account the difficulties which I before showed 
to attend the eloquence of the pulpit, we have perhaps, less 
reason to look for perfection in a sermon, than in any other 
composition. 



LECTURE XXXT. 

CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS PARTS— INTRODUCTION 
—DIVISION— NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 

I HAVE, in the four preceding lectures, considered what 
is peculiar to each of the three great fields of public speaking, 
popular assemblies, the bar, and the pulpit. I am now to treat 
of what is common to them all ; of the conduct of a discourse or 
oration, in general. The previous view which I have given 
of the distinguishing spirit and character of different kinds of 
public speaking, was necessary for the proper application of 
the rules which I am about to deliver ; and as I proceed, I shall 
farther point out, how far any of these rules may have a par- 
ticular respect to the bar, to the pulpit, or to popular courts 

On whatever subject any one intends to discourse, he will 
most commouly begin with some introduction, in order to pre- 
pare the minds of his hearers ; he will then state his subject, and 
explain the facts connected with it ; he will employ arguments 
for establishing his own opinion, and overthrowing that of his 



INTRODUCTION- OF A DISCOURSE. w 

antagonist! lie may perhaps, if there be room for it, endeavour 
to touch the passions of his audience ; and after having said all 
he thinks proper, he will bring his discourse to a close by some 
peroration or conclusion. This being the natural train of 
speaking, the parts that compose a regular formal oration, are 
these six ; first, the exordium or introduction ; secondly, the 
state, and the division of the subject ; thirdly, narration or ex- 
plication ; fourthly, the reasoning or arguments ; fifthly, the 
pathetic part ; and lastly, the conclusion. I do not mean, that 
each of these must enter into every public discourse, or that they 
must enter always in this order. There is no reason for being 
so formal on every occasion ; nay, it would often be a fault, and 
would render a discourse pedantic and stiff. There may be 
many excellent discourses in public, where several of these parts 
are altogether wanting ; where the speaker, for instance, uses 
no introduction, but enters directly on his subject ; where he has 
no occasion either to divide or explain ; but simply reasons on 
one side of the question, and then finishes. But as the parts, 
which I have mentioned, are the natural constituent parts of a 
regular oration ; and as in every discourse whatever, some of 
them must be found, it is necessary to our present purpose, that 
I should treat of each of them distinctly. 

I begin, of course, with the exordium or introduction. This 
is manifestly common to all the three kinds of public speaking. 
It is not a rhetorical invention. It is founded upon nature, and 
suggested by common sense. When one is going to counsel 
another ; when he takes upon him to instruct, or to reprove, 
prudence will generally direct him not to do it abruptly, but to 
use some preparation ; to begin with somewhat that may incline 
the persons to whom he addresses himself, to judge favourably 
of what he is about to say ; and may dispose them to such a 
train of thought, as will forward and assist the purpose which he 
has in view. This is, or ought to be, the main scope of an in- 
troduction. Accordingly Cicero and Quintilian mentions three 
ends, to one or other of which it should be subservient, " reddere 
auditores benevolos, attentos, dociles." 

First ; to conciliate the good-will of the hearers ; to render 
them benevolent, or well-affected to the speaker and to the sub- 
ject. Topics for this purpose may, in causes at the bar, be 
sometimes taken from the particular situation of the speaker 
himself, or of his client, or from the character or behaviour of 
his antagonists, contrasted with his own ; on othn" occasions, 
from the nature of the subject, as closely connected with the 



4U LECTURE XXXI. 

interest ot the hearers, and, in general, from the modesty and 
good intention with which the speaker enters upon his subject. 
The second end of an introduction is, to raise the attention of 
the hearers ; which may be effected by giving them some hints 
of the importance, dignity, or novelty of the subject ; or 3ome 
favourable view of the clearness and precision with which we 
are to treat it ; and of the brevity with which we are to dis- 
course. The third end is to render the hearers docile, or open 
to persuasion ; for which end, we must begin with studying to 
remove any particular prepossessions they may have contracted 
against the cause, or side of the argument which we espouse. 

Some one of these ends should be proposed by every intro- 
duction. When there is no occasion for aiming at any of them; 
when we are already secure of the good-will, the attention, and 
the docility of the audience, as may often be the case, formal in- 
troductions may, without any prejudice, be omitted. And, 
indeed, when they serve for no purpose but mere ostentation, 
they had for the most part better be omitted ; unless as far as 
respect to the audience makes it decent, that a speaker should 
not break in upon them too abruptly, but by a short exordium 
prepare them for what he is going to say. Demosthenes' intro- 
ductions are always short and simple ; Cicero's are fuller and 
more artful. 

The ancient critics distinguish two kinds of introductions, 
which they call " principium," and " insinuatio." " Priucipium" 
is, where the orator plainly and directly professes his aim in 
speaking. "Insinuatio" is, where a larger compass must be 
taken ; and where, presuming the disposition of the audience to 
be much against the orator, he must gradually reconcile them to 
hearing him, before he plainly discovers the point which he has 
in view. 

Of this latter sort of introduction, we have an admirable in- 
stance in Cicero's second oration against Rullus. This Rullus 
was tribune of the people, and had proposed an Agrarian law ; 
the purpose of which was to create a decemvirate, or ten com- 
missioners, with absolute power for five years over all the lands 
conquered by the republic, in order to divide them among the 
citizens. Such laws had often been proposed by factious magis- 
trates, and were always greedily received by the people. Cicero 
is speaking to the people ; he had lately been made consul by 
their interest ; and his first attempt is to make them reject this 
aw. The subject was extremely delicate, and required much 
a it. He begins with acknowledging all the favours which he 



INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 415 

had received from the people, in preference to the nobility. He 
professes himself the creature of their power, and of all men the 
most engaged to promote their interest. He declares that he 
held himself to be the consul of the people ; and that he would 
always glory in preserving the character of a popular magistrate. 
But to be popular, he observes, is an ambiguous word. He 
understood it to import a steady attachment to the real interests 
of the people, to their liberty, their ease, and their peace; 
but by some, he saw, it was abused, and made a cover to 
their own selfish and ambitious designs. In this manner, he 
begins to draw gradually nearer to his purpose of attacking 
the proposal of Rullus, but still with great management and 
reserve. He protests, that he is far from being an enemy to 
Agrarian laws ; he gives the highest praises to the Gracchi, 
those zealous patrons of the people ; and assures them, that 
when he first heard of Rullus's law, he had resolved to sup- 
port it, if he found it for their interest; but that, upon ex- 
amining it, he found it calculated to establish a dominion that 
was inconsistent with liberty, and to aggrandize a few men at 
the expense of the public ; and then terminates his exordium with 
telling them, that he is going to give his reasons for being of 
this opinion ; but that if his reasons shall not satisfy them, he 
will give up his own opinion, and embrace theirs. In all this 
there was great art. His eloquence produced the intended 
effect ; and the people, with one voice, rejected this Agrarian 
law. 

Having given these general views of the nature and end of 
an introduction, I proceed to lay down some rules for the proper 
composition of it. These are the more necessary, as this is a 
part of the discourse which requires no small care. It is always 
of importance to begin well ; to make a favourable impression 
at first setting out ; when the minds of the hearers, vacant as yet 
and free, are most disposed to receive any impression easily. 
1 must add, too, that a good introduction is often found to 
be extremely difficult. Few parts of the discourse give the com- 
poser more trouble, or are attended with more nicety in the ex- 
ecution. 

The first rule is, that the introduction should be easy and 
natural. The subject must always suggest it. It must appear, 
as Cicero beautifully expresses it, " Effloruisse penitus ex re <de 
qua turn agitur."* It is too common a fault in introductions, 

* To have sprung up, of its own accord, from the matter which is under con- 
sideration." 



4.0 LECTURE XXXI. 

that they are taken from some common-place topic, which has no 
peculiar relation to the subject in hand ; by which means they 
stand apart, like pieces detached from the rest of the discourse 
Of this kind are Sallust's introductions, prefixed to his Catilina- 
rian and Jugurthine wars. They might as well have been in- 
troductions to any other history, or to any other treatise what- 
ever ; and, therefore, though elegant in themselves, they must be 
considered as blemishes in the work, from want of due connec- 
tion with it. Cicero, though abundantly correct in this parti- 
cular in his orations, yet is not so in his other works. It ap- 
pears from a letter of his to Atticus (L. xvi. 6.) that it was his 
custom to prepare, at his leisure, a collection of different intro- 
ductions or prefaces, ready to be prefixed to any work that he 
might afterwards publish. In consequence of this strange 
method of composing, it happened to him, to employ the 
same introduction twice without remembering it; prefixing 
it to two different works. Upon Atticus informing him of 
this, he acknowledges the mistake, and sends him a new intro- 
duction. 

In order to render introductions natural and easy, it is, in 
my opinion, a good rule, that they should not be planned till 
after one has meditated in his own mind the substance of his 
discourse. Then, and not till then, he should begin to think 
of some proper and natural introduction. By taking a contrary 
course, and labouring in the first place on an introduction, 
every one who is accustomed to composition will often find, 
that either he is led to lay hold of some common-place topic, 
or that, instead of the introduction being accommodated to the 
discourse, he is obliged to accommodate the whole discourse to 
the introduction which he had previously written. Cicero 
makes this remark ; though, as we have seen, his practice was 
not always conformable to his own rule. " Omnibus rebus 
consideratis, turn denique id, quod primum est dicendum, po 
stremum soleo cogiiare, quo utar exordio. Nam si quando id 
primum invenire volui, nullum mihi occurrit, nisi aut exile, aut 
nugatorium, aut vulgare."* After the mind has been once 
warmed and put in train, by close meditation on the subject, 
materials for the preface will then suggest themselves much more 
readily. 

* " When I have planned and digested all the materials of my discourse, it is 
my custom to think, in the last place, of the introduction with which I am to 
begin. For if at any time I have erdeavoiired to invent an iufroduction first, 
iCAfhing has ever occurred to me for tha' |>urp<>.-;e hut what was trifling uusih 
tory, aud Vi.lg.ij. 



INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 417 

In the second place, in an introduction, correctness should 
be carefully studied in the expression. This is requisite, on ac- 
count of the situation of the hearers. They are then more dis- 
posed to criticise than at any other period ; they are, as yet un- 
occupied with the subject or the arguments ; their attention ia 
wholly directed to the speaker's style and manner. Some- 
thing must be done, therefore, to prepossess them in his favour ; 
though, for the same reasons, too much art must be avoided ; for 
it will be more easily detected at that time than afterwards ; and 
will derogate from persuasion in all that follows. A correct 
plainness, and elegant simplicity, is the proper character of an 
introduction ; " ut videamur," says Quintilian, " accurate, non 
callide, dicere." 

In the third place, modesty is another character which it 
must carry. All appearances of modesty are favourable and 
prepossessing. If the orator set out with an air of arrogance 
and ostentation, the self-love and pride of the hearers will be 
presently awakened, and will follow him with a very suspicious 
eye throughout all his progress. His modesty should discover 
itself not only in his expressions at the beginning, but in his 
whole manner ; in his looks, in his gestures, in the tone of his 
voice. Every auditory take in good part those marks of respect 
and awe, which are paid to them by one who addresses them. 
Indeed, the modesty of an introduction should never betray any 
thing mean or abject. It is always of great use to an orator, 
that together with modesty and deference to his hearers, he 
should show a certain sense of dignity arising from a persuasion 
of the justice or importance of the subject on which he is to 
speak. 

The modesty of an introduction requires, that it promise not 
too much. " Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem."* 
This certainly is the general rule, that an orator should not put 
forth all his strength at the beginning, but should rise and grow 
upon us, as his discourse advances. There are cases, however, 
in which it is allowable for him to set out from the first in a 
high and bold tone ; as, for instance, when he rises to defend 
some cause which has been much run down, and decried by the 
public. Too modest a beginning might be then like a confes- 

* He does not lavish at a blaze his fire, 
Sudden to glare, and then in smoke expire ; 
But rises fiom a cloud of smoke to light, 
And pours his specious miracles to sight. 

Hor. ArsPoet. Franc 
2 E 



413 LECTURE XXXI. 

sion of guilt. By the boldness and strength of his exordium, 
he must endeavour to stem the tide that is against him, and to 
remove prejudices, by encountering them without fear. In sub- 
jects too of a declamatory nature, and in sermons, where the 
subject is striking, a magnificent introduction has sometimes a 
good effect, if it be properly supported in the sequel. Thus 
Bishop Atterbury, in beginning an eloquent sermon, preached 
on the 30th of Jannuary, the aniversary of what is called King 
Charles's Martyrdom, sets out in this pompous manner : " This 
is a day of trouble, of rebuke, and of blasphemy ; distinguished 
in the calendar of our church, and the annals of our nation, by 
the sufferings of an excellent prince, who fell a sacrifice to the 
rage of his rebellious subjects ; and, by his fall, derived infamy, 
misery, and guilt on them, and their sinful posterity." JBossuet, 
Flechier, and the other celebrated French preachers, very often 
begin their discourses with laboured and sublime introductions. 
These raise attention, and throw a lustre on the subject : but 
let every speaker be much on his guard against striking a 
higher note at the beginning, than he is able to keep uo in his 
progress. 

In the fourth place, an introduction should usually be car- 
ried on in the calm manner. This is seldom the place for vehe- 
mence and passion. Emotions must rise as the discourse ad- 
vances. The minds of the hearers must be gradually prepared, 
before the speaker can venture on strong and passionate senti- 
ments. The exceptions to this rule are, when the subject is 
such, that the very mention of it naturally awakens some pas- 
sionate emotion : or when the unexpected presence of some per- 
son or object, in a popular assembly, inflames the speaker, and 
makes him break forth with unusual warmth. Either of these 
will justify what is called the exordium ab abrupto. Thus the ap- 
pearance of Catiline in the senate, renders the vehement begin- 
ning of Cicero's first oration against him very natural and pro- 
per ; « Quousque tandem, Catilina, abutere patientia nostra ?" 
And thus Bishop Atterbury, in preaching from this text, " Bles- 
sed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me," ventures on 
breaking forth with this bold exordium : " And can any man then 
be offended in thee, blessed Jesus ?" which address to our Savi- 
our he continues for a page or two, till he enters on the division 
of his subject. But such introductions as these should be ha- 
zarded by very few, as they promise so much vehemence and 
unction through the rest of the discourse, that it is very difficult 
to fulfil the expectations of the hearers. 



INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 419 

At the same time, though the introduction is not the place in 
which warm emotions are usually to be attempted, yet I must 
take notice, that it ought to prepare the way for such as are de- 
signed to be raised in subsequent parts of the discourse. The 
orator should, in the beginning, turn the minds of his hearers 
towards those sentiments and feelings which he seeks to awaken 
in the course of his speech. According, for instance, as it is 
compassion, or indignation, or contempt, on which his discourse 
is to rest, he ought to sow the seeds of these in his introduction ; 
he ought to begin with breathing that spirit which he means to 
inspire. Much of the orator's art and ability is shown, in thus 
striking properly, at the commencement, the key-note, if we 
may so express it, of the rest of his oration. 

In the fifth place, it is a rule in introductions, not to anti- 
cipate any material part of the subject. When topics, or argu- 
ments, which are afterwards to be enlarged upon, are hinted at, 
and in part, brought forth in the introduction, they lose the grace 
of novelty upon their second appearance. The impression in- 
tended to be made by any capital thought, is always made with 
the greatest advantage, when it is made entire, and in its proper 
place. 

In the last place, the introduction ought to be proportioned, 
both in length and in kind, to the discourse that is to follow ; in 
length, as nothing can be more absurd than to erect a very great 
portico before a small building ; and in kind, as it is no less ab- 
surd to overcharge, with superb ornaments, the portico of a 
plain dwelling-house, or to make the entrance to a monument as 
gay as that to an arbour. Common sense directs, that every 
part of a discourse should be suited to the strain and spirit of 
the whole. 

These are the principal rules that relate to introductions. 
They are adapted, in a great measure, equally, to discourses of 
all kinds. In pleadings at the bar, or speeches in public assem- 
blies, particular care must be taken not to employ any introduc- 
tion of that kind, which the adverse party may lay hold of, and 
turn to his advantage. To this inconvenience all those introduc- 
tions are exposed, which are taken from general and common- 
place topics ; and it never fails to give an adversary a conside- 
rable triumph, if, by giving a small turn to something we had 
said in our exordium, he can appear to convert to his own favour 
the principles with which we had set out, in beginning our attack 
upon him. In the case of replies, Quintilian makes an observa- 
tion which is very worthy of notice ; that introductions, drawn 

2 E 2 



420 LECTURE XXXI 

from something that has been said in the course of the debate, 
have always a peculiar grace ; and the reason he gives for it is 
just and sensible. " Multum gratia? exordio est, quod ab 
actione diversae partis materiam trahit ; hoc ipso, quod non 
compositum domi, sed ibi atque e re natum, et falicitate famara 
ingenii auget, et facie simplicis, sumptique e proximo sermoni» 
fidem quoque acquirit ; adeo ut, etiamsi reliqua scripta atque ela- 
borata sint, tamen plerumque videatur tota extemporalis oratio, 
cujus initium nihil prseparatum habuisse manitestum est."* 

In sermons, such a practice as this cannot take place ; and 
indeed, in composing sermons, few things are more difficult than 
to remove an appearance of stiffness from an introduction, when 
a formal one is used. The French preachers, as I before obser- 
ved, are often very splendid and lively in their introductions ; 
but, among us, attempts of this kind are not always so success- 
ful. When long introductions are formed upon some common- 
place topic, as the desire of happiness being natural to man, or 
the like, they never fail of being tedious. Variety should be 
studied in this part of composition as much as possible ; often it 
may be proper to begin without any introduction at all, unless, 
perhaps, one or two sentences. Explanatory introductions from 
the context, are the most simple of any, and frequently the best 
that can be used : but as they are in hazard of becoming dry, 
■they should never be long. An historical introduction has, gene- 
rally, a happy effect to rouse attention when one can lay hold 
upon some noted fact that is connected with the text or the dis- 
course, and, by a proper illustration of it, open the way to the 
subject that is to be treated of. 

After the introduction, what commonly comes next in order, 
is the proposition, or enunciation of the subject ; concerning 
which there is nothing to be said, but that it should be as clear 
and distinct as possible, and expressed in few and plain words, 
without the least affectation. To this generally succeeds the 
Division, or the laying down the method of the discourse ; on 
which it is necessary to make some observations. I do not mean, 
that in every discourse a formal division, or distribution of it 

* " An introduction, which is founded upon the pleading of the opposite 
party, is extremely graceful ; for this reason, that it appears not to have been 
meditated at home, but to have taken rise from the business, and to have been 
composed on the spot. Hence, it gives to the speaker the reputation of a quick 
invention, and adds weight likewise to his discourse, as artless and unlaboured ; 
insomuch, that though all the rest of his oration should be studied and written, 
yet the whole discourse has the appearance of being extemporary, as it is evi- 
dent that the introduction to it was rinpremed'tated." — iv. 1. 54. 



DIVISION OF A DISCOURSE. 



421 



into parts, is requisite. There are many occasions of public 
speaking when this is neither requisite nor would be proper ; 
when the discourse, perhaps, is to be short, or only one point is 
to be treated of ; or when the speaker does not choose to warn 
his hearers of the method he is to follow, or of the conclusion to 
which he seeks to bring them. Order of one kind or other is, 
indeed, esssential to every good discourse ; that is, every thing 
should be so arranged, as that what goes before may give light 
and force to what follows. But this may be accomplished by 
means of a concealed method. What we call Division is, when 
the method is propounded in form to the hearers. 

The discourse in which this sort of division most commonly 
takes place, is a sermon : and a question has been moved, whe- 
ther this method of laying down heads, as it is called, be the 
best method of preaching. A very able judge, the Archbishop 
of Carabray, in his Dialogues on Eloquence, declares strongly 
against it. He observes, that it is a modern invention ; that it 
was never practised by the fathers of the church ; and what is 
certainly true, that it took its rise from the schoolmen, when meta- 
physics began to be introduced intt^preaching. He is of opinion, 
that it renders a sermon stiff, that it breaks the unity of the dis- 
course ; and that, by the natural connection of one part with 
another, the attention of the hearers would be carried along the 
whole with more advantage. 

But, notwithstanding his authority and his arguments, I cannot 
help being of opinion, that the present method of dividing a ser- 
mon into heads ought not to be laid aside. Established practice 
has now given it so much weight, that, were there nothing more 
in its favour, it would be dangerous for any preacher to deviate 
so far from the common track. But the practice itself has also, 
in my judgment, much reason on its side. If formal partitions 
give a sermon less of the oratorial appearance, they render it, 
however, more clear, more easily apprehended, and, of coursej 
more instructive to the bulk of hearers, which is always the main 
object to be kept in view. The heads of a sermon are great as» 
sistance to the memory and recollection of the hearer. They 
serve also to fix his attention. They enable him more easily to 
keep pace with the progress of the discourse ; they give him 
pauses and resting-places, where he can reflect on what has been 
said, and look forward to what is to follow. They are attended 
with this advantage too, that they give the audience the opportu- 
nity of knowing, beforehand, when they are to be released from 
the fatigue of attention, and thereby make them follow the SDeakef 



♦32 LECTURE XXXI. 

more patiently: « Reficit audientem," says Quintilian, taking 
notice of this very advantage of divisions in other discourses, 
" Reficit audientem certo singularum partium fine ; non aliter 
quam facientibus iter, multum detrahunt fatigationis notata in- 
scriptis lapidibus spatia : nam et exhausti laboris nosse mensu- 
ram voluptati est, et hovtatur ad reliqua fortius exsequenda, scire, 
quantum supersit.''* With regard to breaking the unity of a 
discourse, T cannot be of opinion that there arises, from that 
quarter, any argument against the method I am defending. 
If the unity be broken, it is to the nature of the heads, or 
topics of which the speaker treats, that this is to be imputed ; 
not to his laying them down in form. On the contrary, if his 
heads be well chosen, his marking them out, and distinguishing 
them, in place of imparing the unity of the whole, renders 
it more conspicuous and complete ; by showing how all the 
parts of a discourse hang upon one another, and tend to one 
point. 

In a sermon, or in a pleading, or any discourse where divi- 
sion is proper to be used, the most material rules are, 

First, That, the several parts into which the subject is divided, 
be really distinct from one another ; that is, that no one include 
another. It were a very absurd division, for instance, if one 
should propose to treat first, of the advantages of virtue, and 
next, of those of justice or temperance ; because the first head 
evidently comprehends the second, as a genus does the species ; 
which method of proceeding involves the subject in indistinct- 
ness and disorder. 

Secondly, in division, we must take care to follow the order 
of nature ; beginning with the simplest points, such as are easi- 
est apprehended, and necessary to be first discussed ; and pro- 
ceeding thence to those which are built upon the former, and 
which suppose them to be known. We must divide the sub- 
ject into those parts, into which most easily and naturally it is 
resolved ; that it may seem to split itself, and not to be vio- 
lently torn asunder : K Dividere," as is commonly said, " non 
frangere." 

Thirdly, The several members of a division ought to exhaust 
the subject ; otherwise we do not make a complete division ; we 

• " The conclusion of each head is a relief to the hearers ; just as, upon a 
journey, the mile-stones, which are set upon the road, serve to diminish the 
traveller's fatigue. For we are always pleased with seeing our labour begin to 
lessen ; and, by calculating how much remains, are stirred up to finish our task 
more cheerfully." — iv. 5. 22 



DIVISION OF A DISCOURSE. 423 

exhibit the subject by pieces and corners only, without giving any 
such plan as displays the whole. 

Fourthly, The terms in which our partitions are expressed, 
should be as concise as possible. Avoid all circumlocution 
here. Admit not a single word but what is necessary. Preci- 
sion is to be studied above all things, in laying down a method. 
It is this which chiefly makes a division appear neat and elegant ; 
when the several heads are propounded in the clearest, most ex- 
pressive, and, at the same time, the fewest words possible. This 
never fails to strike the hearers agreeably ; and is, at the same 
time, of great consequence towards making the divisions be more 
easily remembered. 

Fifthly, Avoid an unnecessary multiplication of heads. To 
6plit a subject into a great many minute parts, by divisions and 
subdivisions without end, has always a bad effect in speaking. 
It may be proper in a logical freatise ; but it makes an oration 
appear hard and dry, and unnecessarily fatigues the memory. 
In a sermon, there may be from three to five or six heads, in- 
cluding subdivisions ; seldom should there be more. 

In a sermon, or in a pleading at the bar, few things are of 
greater consequence than a proper or happy division. It should 
be studied with much accuracy and care ; for if one take a 
wrong method at first setting out, it will lead them astray in all 
that follows. It will render the whole discourse either perplexed 
or languid ; and though the hearers may not be able to tell where 
the fault or disorder lies, they will be sensible there is a disorder 
somewhere, and find themselves little affected by what is spoken. 
The French writers of sermons study neatness and elegance in 
the divisions of their subjects much more than the English do ; 
whose distributions, though sensible and just, yet are often in- 
artificial and verbose. Among the French, however, too much 
quaintness appears in their divisions, with an affectation of al- 
ways setting out either with two, or with three general heads of 
discourse. A division of Massillon's on this text, " It is finished," 
has been much extolled by the French critics : " This imports/ 
says the preacher, " consummation, first, of justice on the part of 
God ; secondly, of wickedness on the part of men ; thirdly, 
of love on the part of Christ." This also of Bourdaloue's 
has been much praised, from these words, " My peace I give 
unto you :" " Peace," says he, " first to the understanding, 
by submission to faith ; secondly, to the heart, by submission to 
the law." 

The next constituent part of a discourse, which I mentioned, 



424 LECTURE XXXT. 

was Narration or Explication. 1 put these two together, both 
because they fall nearly under the same rules, and because they 
commonly answer the same purpose ; serving to illustrate the 
cause, or the subject of which the orator treats, before he pro- 
ceeds to argue either on one side or other ; or to make any 
attempt for interesting the passions of the hearers. 

In pleadings at the bar, narration is often a very important 
part of the discourse, and requires to be particularly attended 
to. Besides its being in any case no easy matter to relate with 
grace and propriety, there is in narrations at the bar a peculiar 
difficulty. The pleader must say nothing but what is true ; and 
at the same time he must avoid saying any thing that will hurt 
his cause. The facts which he relates, are to be the ground- 
work of all his future reasoning. To recount them so as to keep 
strictly within the bounds of truth, and yet to present them un- 
der the colours most favourable to his cause ; to place in the 
most striking light every circumstance which is to his advan- 
tage, and to soften and weaken such as make against him, de- 
mand no small exertion of skill and dexterity. He must always 
remember, that if he discovers too much art, he defeats his own 
purpose, and creates a distrust of his sincerity. Quintilian 
very properly directs, " EfTugienda in hac prsecipue parte omnis 
calliditatis suspicio ; (neque enim se usquam magis custodit ju- 
dex, quam cum narrat orator) nihil videatur fictum, nihil 
sollicitum ; omnia potius a causa, quam ab oratore profecta 
credantur."* 

To be clear and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, 
are the qualities which critics chiefly require in narration; each 
of which carries, sufficiently, the evidence of its importance. 
Distinctness belongs to the whole train of the discourse, but 
is especially requisite in narration, which ought to throw light on 
all that follows. A fact, or a single circumstance, left in obscurity 
and misapprehended by the judge, may destroy the effect of all 
the argument and reasoning which the speaker employs. If his 
narration be improbable, the judge will not regard it ; and if it 
be tedious and diffuse, he will be tired of it, and forget it. In 
order to produce distinctness, besides the study of the general 
rules of pei-soicuity which were formerly given, narration requires 

* " In this part of discourse, the speaker must be very careful to shun every 
appearance of art and cunning. For there is no time at which the judge is mote 
upon his guard, than when the pleader is relating facts. Let nothing seem 
feigned ; nothing anxiously concealed. Let all that is said, appear to arise from 
the cause itself, and not to be the work of the orator."— iv. 2 126 






NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 425 

particular attention to ascertain clearly the names, the dates, 
the places, and every other material circumstance of the facts 
recounted. In order to be probable in narration, it is material 
to enter into the characters of the v persons of whom we speak, 
and to show, that their actions proceeded from such motives as 
are natural, and likely to gain belief. In order to be as concise 
as the subject will admit, it is necessary to throw out all 
superfluous circumstances ; the rejection of which will like- 
wise tend to make our narration more forcible, and more 
clear. 

Cicero is very remarkable for his talent of narration ; and 
from the examples in his orations much may be learned. The 
narration, for instance, in the celebrated oration Pro Milone, 
has been often and justly admired. His scope is to show, that 
though in fact Clodius was killed by Milo or his servants, yet 
that it was only in self-defence ; and that the design had been 
laid, not by Milo against Clodius, but by Clodius against Milo s 
life. All the circumstances for rendering this probable are 
painted with wonderful art. In relating the manner of Milo's 
setting out from Rome, he gives the most natural description of 
a family excursion to the country, under which it was impossible 
that any bloody design could be concealed. " He remained," 
says he, " in the senate-house that day, till all the business was 
over. He came home, changed his clothes deliberately, and 
waited for some time, till his wife had got all her things ready 
for going with him in his carriage to the country. He did not 
set out till such time as Clodius might easily have been in Rome, 
if he had not been lying in wait for Milo by the way. By and 
by, Clodius met him on the road, on horseback ; like a man pre- 
pared for action, no carriage, not his wife, as was usual, nor any 
family equipage along with him ; whilst Milo, who is supposed 
to be meditating slaughter and assassination, is travelling in a 
carriage with his wife, wrapped up in his cloak, embarrassed 
with baggage, and attended by a great train of women servants 
and boys." He goes on, describing the recounter that followed, 
Clodius's servants attacking those of Milo, and killing the driver 
of his carriage ; Milo jumping out, throwing off his cloak, and 
making the best defence he could, while Clodius's servants en- 
deavoured to surround him ; and then concludes his narration 
with a very delicate and happy stroke. He does not say in 
plain words, that Milo's servants killed Clodius, but that * in 
the midst of the tumult, Milo's servants, without the orders, 
without the knowledge, without the presence of their master 



420 LECTURE XXXIT. 

did what every master would have wished his servants, in a like 
conjuncture, to have done."* 

In sermons, where there is seldom any occasion for narration, 
explication of the subject to be discoursed on, comes in the 
place of narration at the bar, and is to be taken up much on 
the same tone ; that is, it must be concise, clear, and distinct ; 
and in a style correct and elegant, rather than highly adorned. 
To explain the doctrine of the text with propriety ; to give a full 
and perspicuous account of the nature of that virtue or duty 
which forms the subject of the discourse, is properly the didactic 
part of preaching ; on the right execution of which much de- 
pends for all that comes afterwards in the way of persuasion. 
The great art in succeeding in it, is, to meditate profoundly on 
the subject, so as to be able to place it in a clear and strong 
point of view. Consider what light other passages of Scripture 
throw upon it ; consider whether it be a subject nearly related 
to some other from which it is proper to distinguish it : consider 
whether it can be illustrated to advantage by comparing it with, 
or opposing it to, some other thing ; by inquiring into causes, or 
tracing effects ; by pointing out examples, or appealing to the 
feelings of hearers ; that thus, a definite, precise, circumstan- 
tial view may be afforded of the doctrine to be inculcated. Let 
the preacher be persuaded, that by such distinct and apt illus- 
trations of the known truths of religion, it may both display 
great merit in the way of composition, and, what he ought to 
consider as far more valuable, render his discourses weighty, 
instructive, and useful. 

* " Milo cum in senatu fuisset eo die, quod senatus dimissus est, domum 
venit. Calceos et vestimenta mutavit; paullisper, dum se. uxor (ut fit) com- 
parat, commoratus est : deinde profectus est id temporis, cum jam Clodius, 
siquidem eo die Romam venturus erat, redire potuisset. Obviam fit ei Clodius, 
expeditus, in equo, nulla rheda, nullis impedimentis, nullis Graecis comitibus, ut 
solebat, sine uxore, quod minquam fere. Cum Lie insidiator, qui iter illud ad 
caedem faciendam, apparasset, cum uxore veheretur in rheda, pcenulatus, 
mag-no impedimento, ac muliebri et delicato ancillarum puerorumque comitata. 
Fit obviam Clodio ante f'undum ejus, hora fere undecima, aut non multo secus. 
Statim complures cum telis in hunc faciunt de loco superiore iinpetum : adversi 
rbedarium occidunt; cum autem bic de rheda, rejecta paenula, desiluisset, 
6eque acri animo def'enderet, illi qui erant cum Clodio, gladiis eductis, partim 
recurrere ad rhedam, ut a tergo Milonem adorirentur ; partim, quod hunc jam 
interfectum putarent, caedere incipiunt ejus servos, qui post erant ; ex quibus 
qui animo fideli in dominum et praesenti fuerunt, partim occisi sunt, partim, cum 
ad rhedam pugnare viderent, et domino succurrere prohiberentur, Milonemque 
occisum etiam ex ipso Clodio audirent, et ita esse putarent, fecerunt id servi 
Milonis (dicam enim non derivandi crimiuis causa, sed ut factum est) neque im- 
perante, neque sciente, neque piaesente domino, quod suos quisque 'servos in 
tali re facere volnisset."— c. 10. 



427 



LECTURE XXXII. 

CQxMDUCT OF A DISCOURSE— THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART— THE 
PATHETIC PART.— THE PERORATION. 

In treating of the constituent parts of a regular discourse 
or oration, I have already considered the introduction, the divi- 
sion, and the narration or explication. I proceed next to treat 
of the argumentative or reasoning part of a discourse. In what- 
ever place, or on whatever subject one speaks, this, beyond 
doubt, is of the greatest consequence. For the great end for 
which men speak on any serious occasion, is to convince their 
hearers of something being either true, or right, or good : and, 
by means of this conviction, to influence their practice. Reason 
and argument make the foundation, as I have often inculcated, 
of all manly and persuasive eloquence. 

Now, with respect to arguments, three things are requisite. 
First, the invention of them ; secondly, the proper disposition 
and arrangement of them ; and thirdly, the expressing of them 
in such a style and manner, as to give them their full force. 

The first of these, invention, is, without doubt, the most ma- 
terial, and the ground-work of the rest. But, with respect to 
this, I am afraid it is beyond the power of art to give any real 
assistance. Art cannot go so far, as to supply a speaker with 
arguments on every cause, and every subject ; though it may be 
of considerable use in assisting him to arrange and express 
those, which his knowledge of the subject has discovered. For 
it is one thing to discover the reasons that are most proper to 
convince men, and another, to manage these reasons with the 
most advantage. The latter is all that rhetoric can pretend to. 

The ancient rhetoricians did indeed attempt to go much far- 
ther than this. They attempted to form rhetoric into a more 
complete system ; and professed not only to assist public 
speakers in setting off their arguments to most advantage ; but 
to supply the defect of their invention, and to teach them where 
to find arguments on every subject and cause. Hence their 
doctrine of topics, or * loci communes," and " sedes argumen- 
torum," which makes so great a figure in the writings of Aris- 
totle, Cicero, and Quintilian. These topics, or loci, were no 
other than general ideas applicable to a great many different 
subjects, which the orator was directed to consult, in order to 
find out materials for his speech They had their intrinsic and 



428 LECTURE XXX1F. 

extrinsic loci ; some loci that were common to all tlie different 
kinds of public speaking, and some that were peculiar to eacli. 
The common or general loci, were such as genus and species, 
cause and effect, antecedents and consequents, likeness and con- 
trariety, definition, circumstances of time and place ; and a great 
many more of the same kinds. For each of the different kinds 
of public speaking, they had their " loci personarum," and " loci 
re rum :" as in demonstrative orations, for instance, the heads 
from which any one could be decried or praised ; his birth, his 
country, his education, his kindred, the qualities of his body, the 
qualities of his mind, the fortune he enjoyed, the stations he had 
rilled, &c. and in deliberative orations, the topics that might be 
used in recommending any public measure, or dissuading from 
it; such as, honesty, justice, facility, profit, pleasure, glory, as- 
sistance from friends, mortification to enemies, and the like. 

The Grecian sophists were the first inventors of this artificial 
system of oratory ; and they shewed a prodigious subtilty and 
fertility in the contrivance of these loci. Succeeding rhetoricians, 
dazzled by the plan, wrought them up into so regular a system, 
that one would think they meant to teach bow a person might 
mechanically become an orator, without any genius at all. They 
give him receipts for making speeches, on all manner of subjects. 
At the same time, it is evident, that though this study of common 
places might produce very showy academical declamations, it 
could never produce useful discourses on real business. The 
loci indeed supplied a most exuberant fecundity of matter. One 
who had no other aim but to talk copiously and plausibly, by 
consulting them on every subject, and laying hold of all that they 
suggested, might discourse without end ; and that too, though 
he had none but the most superficial knowledge of his subject. 
15ut such discourse could be no other than trivial. What is 
truly solid and persuasive, must be drawn "• ex visceribus 
causa?," from a thorough knowledge of the subject, and pro- 
found meditation on it. They who would direct students of 
oratory to any other sources of argumentation, only delude 
them ; and by attempting to render rhetoric too perfect an art, 
they render it, in truth, a trifling and childish study. 

On this doctrine, therefore, of the rhetorical loci, or topics, 
I think it superfluous to insist. If any think that the knowledge 
of them may contribute to improve their invention, and extend 
their views, they may consult Aristotle and Quintilian, or what 
Cicero has written on this head, in his Treatise De Imientione, 
bis Toxica, and second book De Oralore. But when they are to 



THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART. 429 

prepare a discourse, by which they propose to convince a judge, 
or to produce any considerable effect upon an assembly, I would 
advise them to lay aside their common places, and to think 
closely of their subject. Demosthenes, I dare say, consulted 
none of the loci, when he was inciting the Athenians to take 
arms against Philip ; and where Cicero has had recourse to 
them, his orations are so much the worse on that account. 

I proceed to what is of more real use, to point out the as- 
sistance that can be given, not with respect to the invention, but 
with respect to the disposition and conduct of arguments. 

Two different methods may be used by orators in the con- 
duct of their reasoning ; the terms of art for which are, the ana- 
lytic, and the synthetic method. The analytic is, .when the 
orator conceals his intention concerning the point he is to prove, 
till he has gradually brought his hearers to the designed conclu- 
sion. They are led on, step by step, from one known truth to 
another, till the conclusion be stolen upon them, as the natural 
consequence of a chain of propositions. As, for instance, when 
one intending to prove the being of a God, sets out with ob- 
serving that every thing which we see in the world has had a 
beginning, that whatever has had a beginning, must have had a 
prior cause ; that in human productions, art shown in the effect, 
necessarily infers design in the cause ; and proceeds leading you 
on from one cause to another, till you arrive at one supreme 
First Cause, from whom is derived all the order and design visi 
ble in his works. This is much the same with the Socratic 
method, by which that philosopher silenced the sophists of his 
age. It is a very artful method of reasoning ; may be carried on 
with much beauty, and is proper to be used when the hearers 
are much prejudiced against any truth, and by imperceptible 
steps must be led to conviction. 

But there are few subjects that will admit this method, and 
not many occasions on which it is proper to be employed. The 
mode of reasoning more generally used, and most suited to the 
train of popular speaking, is what is called the synthetic ; when 
the point to be proved is fairly laid down, and one argument 
aftrr another is made to bear upon it, till the hearers be fully 
convinced. 

Now, in all arguing, one of the first things to be attended to 
is, among the various arguments which may occur upon a cause, 
to make a proper selection of such as appear to one's self the 
most solid ; and to employ these as the chief means of persua- 
sion. Every speaker should place himself in the situation of a 



«30 LECTURE XXXII. 

hearer, and think how he would he affected hy those reasons, 
which he purposes to employ for persuading others. For he 
must not expect to impose on mankind by mere arts of speech. 
They are not so easily imposed on, as public speakers are some- 
iimes apt to think. Shrewdness and sagacity are found among 
all ranks ; and the speaker may be praised for his fine discourse, 
while yet the hearers are not persuaded of the truth of any one 
thing he has uttered. 

Supposing the arguments properly chosen, it is evident that 
their effect will, in some measure, depend on the right arrange- 
ment of them ; so as they shall not justle and embarrass one 
another, but give mutual aid ; and bear with the fairest and 
fullest direction on the point in view. Concerning this, the fol- 
lowing rules may be taken : 

In the first place, avoid blending arguments confusedly 
together, that are of a separate nature. All arguments whatever 
are directed to prove one or other of these three things ; that 
something is true ; that it is morally right or fit ; or that it is 
profitable and good. These make the three great subjects of 
discussion among mankind ; truth, duty, and interest. But the 
arguments directed towards any one of them are generically dis- 
tinct ; and he who blends them all under one topic, which he 
calls his argument, as, in sermons especially, is too often done, 
will render his reasoning indistinct and inelegant. Suppose, 
for instance, that I am recommending to an audience benevo- 
lence, or the love of our neighbour ; and that I take my first ar- 
gument, from the inward satisfaction which a benevolent temper 
affords ; my second, from the obligation which the example of 
Christ lays upon us to this duty ; and my third, from its tendency 
to procure us the good-will of all around us ; my arguments are 
good, but I have arranged them wrong : for my first and tliird 
arguments are taken from considerations of interest, internal 
peace, and external advantages ; and between these, I have in- 
troduced one, which rests wholly upon duty. I should have 
kept those classes of arguments, which are addressed to different 
principles in human nature, separate and distinct. 

In the second place, with regard to the different degrees of 
strength in arguments, the general rule is, to advance in the 
way of climax, " ut augeatur semper, et increscat oratio." This 
especially is to be the course, when the speaker has a clear 
cause, and is confident that he can prove it fully. He may then 
adventure to begin with feebler arguments ; rising gradually, 
and not putting forth his whole strength till the last, when he 



THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART. 431 

can trust to his making a successful impression on the minds 
of hearers, prepared by what has gone before. But this rule is 
not to be always followed. For, if he distrusts his cause, and 
has but one material argument on which to lay the stress, 
putting less confidence in the rest, in this case, it is often proper 
for him to place this material argument in the front ; to pre- 
occupy the hearers early, and make the strongest effort at first : 
(hat, having removed prejudices, and disposed them to be 
favourable, the rest of his reasoning may be listened to with 
more candour. When it happens, that amidst a variety of ar- 
guments, there are one or two which we are sensible are more 
inconclusive than the rest, and yet proper to be used, Cicero 
advises to place these in the middle, as a station less con- 
spicuous than either the beginning, or the end, of the train 
of reasoning. 

In the third place ; when our arguments are strong and satis- 
factory, the more they are distinguished and treated apart from 
each other, the better. Each can then bear to be brought out 
by itself, placed in its full light, amplified, and rested upon. 
But when our arguments are doubtful, and only of the presump- 
tive kind, it is safer to throw them together in a crowd, and to 
run them into one another ; " ut quae sunt natura imbecilla," as 
Quintilian speaks, u mutuo auxilio sustineantur ;" that though 
infirm of themselves, they may serve mutually to prop each 
other. He gives a good example, in the case of one who was 
accused of murdering a relation, to whom he was heir. Direct 
proof was wanting ; but, " you expected a succession, and a 
great succession ; you were in distressed circumstances ; you 
were pushed to the utmost by your creditors ; you had offended 
your relation, who had made you his heir ; you know that he 
was just then intending to alter his will ; no time was to be lost 
Each of these particulars, by itself," says the author, " is in- 
conclusive ; but when they were assembled in one group, they 
have effect." 

Of the distinct amplification of one persuasive argument, we 
have a most beautiful example in Cicero's Oration for Mi3o. 
The argument is taken from a circumstance of time. Milo was 
candidate for the consulship ; and Clodius was killed a few days 
before the election. He asks, if any one could believe that Milo 
would be mad enough, at such a critical time, by a most odious 
assassination, to alienate from himself the favour of people, 
whose suffrages he was so anxiously courting ? This argument, 
the moment it is suggested, appears to have considerable wt ight 



4S2 LECTURE XXXtl. 

But it was not enough simply to suggest it ; it could bear to 
be dwelt upon, and brought out into full light. The orator 
therefore, draws a just and striking picture of that solicitous 
attention with which candidates, at such a season, always found 
it necessary to cultivate the good opinion of the people : u Quo 
tempore," says he, " (scio enim, quam timida sit ambitio, quan- 
taque et quam sollicita cupiditas consulatus) omnia, non modo 
quae reprehendi palam, sed etiam quae obscure cogitari pos- 
sunt, timemus. Rumorem, fabulam fictam falsam, perhorresci 
raus ; ora omnium atque oculos intuemur. Nihil enim est tam 
tenerum, tam aut fragile aut flexibile, quam voluntas ergo nos 
sensusque civium, qui non modo improbitati irascuntur candi- 
datorum, sed etiam in recte factis ssepe fastidiunt." From all 
which he most justly concludes, " Hunc diem igitur campi, 
speratum atque exoptatum, sibi proponens Milo, cruentis ma- 
nibus, scelus atque facinus prae se ferens, ad ilia centuriarum 
auspicia veniebat ? Quam hoc in illo minimum credibile !"* 
But though such amplification as this be extremely beautiful, 
T must add a caution, 

In the fourth place, against extending arguments too far, and 
multiplying them too much. This -serves rather to render a cause 
suspected, than to give it weight. An unnecessary multiplicity 
of arguments both burdens the memory and detracts from the 
weight of that conviction which a few well-chosen arguments 
carry. It is to be observed too, that in the amplification of ar- 
guments, a diffuse and spreading method, beyond the bounds of 
reasonable illustration, is always enfeebling. It takes off 
greatly from that " vis et acumen," which should be the distin- 
guishing character of the argumentative part of a discourse. 
When a speaker dwells long on a favourite argument, and 
seeks to turn it into every possible light, it almost always 
happens, that, fatigued with the effort, he loses the spirit with 

• Well do I know to what length ihe timidity goes of such as are candidates 
for public offices, and how many anxious cares and attentions a canvass for the 
consulship necessarily carries along with it. On such an occasion we are afraid 
not only of what we may openly be reproached with, but of what others may 
think of us in secret. The slightest rumour, the most improbable tale that can 
be devised to our prejudice, alarms and disconcerts ns. We study the counte- 
nance and the looks of all around us : for nothing is so delicate, so frail aud un- 
certain, as the public favour. Our fellow-citizens not only are justly offended 
with the vices of candidates, but even, on occasion of meritorious actions, are 
apt to conceive capricious disgusts. Is there then the least credibility that iUilo, 
after having so long fixed his attention on the imporrant and wished-for day of 
election, would dare to have any thoughts of presenting himself before the au- 
gust assembly of the people, as a murderer and assassin, with his hands em- 
bmcd in blood V 



THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART. 433 

which he set out ; and concludes with feebleness what he began 
with force. There is a proper temperance in reasoning, as there 
is in other parts of a discourse. 

After due attention given to the proper arrangement of ar- 
guments, what is next requisite for their success is to express 
them in such a style, and to deliver them in such a manner, as 
shall give them full force. On these heads I must refer the reader 
to the directions I have given in treating of style, in former 
lectures ; and to the directions I am afterwards to give con- 
cerning pronunciation and delivery. 

I proceed, therefore, next, to another essential part of 
discourse which I mentioned as the fifth in order, that is, the 
Pathetic ; in which, if any where, eloquence reigns, and exerts 
its power. I shall not, in beginning this head, take up time in 
combating the scruples of those who have moved a question, 
whether it be consistent with fairness and candour in a public 
speaker, to address the passions of his audience ? This is a 
question about words alone, and which common sense easily 
determines. In inquiries after mere truth, in matters of simple 
information and instruction, there is no question that the 
passions have no concern, and that all attempts to move them 
are absurd. Wherever conviction is the object, it is the under- 
standing alone that is to be applied to. It is by argument and 
reasoning, that one man attempts to satisfy another of what is 
true, or right, or just ; but if persuasion be the object, the case 
is changed. In all that relates to practice, there is no man who 
seriously means to persuade another, but addresses himself to 
his passions more or less ; for this plain reason, that passions 
are the great springs of human action. The most virtuous man 
iu treating of the most virtuous subject, seeks to touch the heart 
of him to whom he speaks ; and makes no scruple to raise his 
indignation at injustice, or his pity to the distressed, though pity 
and indignation be passions. 

In treating of this part of eloquence, the ancients made the 
same sort of attempt as they employed with respect to the argu- 
mentative part, in order to bring rhetoric into a more perfect 
system. They inquired metaphysically into the nature of every 
passion ; they gave a definition and description of it ; they 
treated of its causes, its effects, and its concomitants ; and thence 
deduced rules for working upon it. Aristotle in particular has, 
in his Treatise upon Rhetoric, discussed the nature of the pas- 
sions with much profoundness and subtilty ; and what he has 
written on that head may be i*ead with no small profit, as a 

2 F 



431 LEC1URE XXXII. 

valuable piece of moral philosophy ; but whether it will have any 
effect in rendering an orator more pathetic, is to me doubtful. 
It is not, I am afraid, any philosophical knowledge of the pas- 
sions, that can confer this talent. We must be indebted for it to 
nature, to a certain strong and happy sensibility of mind ; and 
one may be a most thorough adept in all the speculative know- 
ledge that can be acquired concerning the passions, and remain 
at the same time a cold and dry speaker. The use of rules and 
instructions on this or any other part of oratory, is not to supply 
the want of genius, but to direct it, where it is found, into its 
proper channel ; to assist it in exerting itself with most advan- 
tage, and to prevent the errors and extravagancies into which it 
it is sometimes apt to run. On the head of the pathetic, the fol- 
lowing directions appear to me to be useful. 

The first is, to consider carefully, whether the subject admit 
the pathetic, and render it proper ; and if it does, what part of 
the discourse is the most proper for attempting it. To deter- 
mine these points belongs to good sense ; for it is evident that 
there are many subjects which admit not the pathetic at all, and 
that even in those that are susceptible of it, an attempt to excite 
the passions in the wrong place, may expose an orator to ridicule. 
All that can be said in general is, that if we expect any emotion 
which we raise to have a lasting effect, we must be careful to 
bring over to our side, in the first place, the understanding and 
judgment. The hearers must be convinced that there are good 
and sufficient grounds for their entering with warmth into the 
cause. They must be able to justify to themselves the passion 
which they feel ; and remain satisfied that they are not carried 
away by mere delusion. Unless their minds be brought into 
this state, although they may have been heated by the orator's 
discourse, yet as soon as he ceases to speak, they will resume 
their ordinary tone of thought, and the emotion which he has 
raised will die entirely away. Hence most writers assign the 
pathetic to the peroration or conclusion, as its natural place ; 
and, no doubt, all other things being equal, this is the impression 
that one would choose to make last, leaving the minds of the 
hearers warmed with the subject, after argument and reasoning 
had produced their full effect : but wherever it is introduced, I 
must advise, 

In the second place, never to set apart a head of a discourse, 
in form, for raising any passion ; never give warning that you 
are about to be pathetic ; and call upon your hearers, as is 
sometimes done to follow you in the attempt. This almost 



THE PATHETIC PART. 435 

never fails to prove a refrigerant to passion. It puts the hearers 
immediately on their guard, and disposes them for criticising, 
much more than for being moved. The indirect method of 
making an impression is likely to be more successful ; when you 
seize the critical moment that is favourable to emotion, in what- 
ever part of the discourse it occurs, and then, after due prepa- 
ration, throw in such circumstances, and present such glowing 
images, as may kindle their passions before they are aware. 
This can often be done more happily in a few sentences 
inspired by natural warmth, than in a long and studied ad- 
dress. 

In the third place, it is necessary to observe that there is a 
great difference between showing the hearers that they ought 
to be moved, and actually moving them. This distinction is 
not sufficiently attended to, especially by preachers, who, if 
they have a head in their sermon to show how much we are 
bound to be grateful to God, or to be compassionate to the 
distressed, are apt to imagine this to be a pathetic part. Now, 
all the arguments you produce to show me, why it is my duty, 
why it is reasonable arid fit that I should be moved in a certain 
way, go no farther than to dispose or prepare me for entering 
into such an emotion ; but they do not actually excite it. To 
every emotion or passion, Nature has adapted a set of corre- 
sponding objects ; and without setting these before the mind, 
it is not in the power of any orator to raise that emotion. I 
am warmed with gratitude, I am touched with compassion, not 
when a speaker shows me that these are noble dispositions, 
and that it is my duty to feel them ; or when he exclaims 
against me for my indifference and coldness. All this time, he 
is speaking only to my reason or conscience. He must describe 
the kindness and tenderness of my friend ; he must set before 
me the distress suffered by the person for whom he would inte- 
rest me ; then, and not till then, my heart begins to be touched, 
my gratitude or my compassion begins to flow. The foundation, 
therefore, of all successful execution in the way of pathetic 
oratory is, to paint the object of that passion which we wish to 
raise, in the most natural and striking manner ; to describe it 
with such circumstances as are likely to awaken it in the minds 
of others. Every passion is most strongly excited by sensation ; 
as anger by the feeling of an injury, or the presence, of the in- 
jurer. Next to the influence of sense, is that of memory ; and 
next to memory, is the influence of the imagination. Of this 
power, therefore, the orator must avail himself, so as to strike 

2 F 2 



436 LECTURE XXXII. 

the imagination of the hearers with circumstances which, in 
lustre and steadiness, resemble those of sensation and remem- 
brance. In order to accomplish this, 

In the fourth place, the only effectual method is, to be moved 
yourselves. There are a thousand interesting circumstances sug- 
gested by real passion, which no art can imitate, and no refine- 
ment can supply. There is obviously a contagion among the 
passions. 

Ut ridentibus art-id ent, sic flentibus adflent, 
Humani vultus. 

The internal emotion of the speaker adds a pathos to his words, 
his looks, his gestures, and his whole manner, which exerts a 
power almost irresistible over those who hear him.* But on this 
point, though the most material of all, I shall not now insist, as I 
have often had occasion before to show, that all attempts to- 
wards becoming pathetic, when we are not moved ourselves, ex- 
pose us to certain ridicule. 

Quintilian, who discourses upon this subject with much good 
sense, takes pains to inform us of the method which he used, 
when he was a public speaker, for entering into those passions 
which he wanted to excite in others ; setting before his own im- 
agination what he calls " phantasiae," or " visiones," strong 
pictures of the distress or indignities which they had suffered, 
whose cause he was to plead, and for whom he was to interest 
his hearers ; dwelling upon these, and putting himself in their 
situation, till he was affected by a passion, similar to that which 
the persons themselves had felt.f To this method he attributes 
all the success he had ever had in public speaking ; and there 
can be no doubt, that whatever tends to increase an orator's 
sensibility, will add greatly to his pathetic powers. 

• " Quid enim aliud est causa, ut lugentes, utique in recenti dolore, disertissime 
quaedam exclamare videantur, et ira nonnunquam in indoctis quoque eloquen- 
tiam faciat ; quam quod illis inest vis mentis, et Veritas ipsa morum ? quare in iis, 
quae verisimilia esse volumus, simus ipsi similes eorum, qui vere patimntur, affec- 
ttbus ; et a tali animo proficiscatur oratio, qualem facere judicem volet.— Affici- 
amur, ante quam afficere conemur." — Quint, lib. vi. 2. 2G-7. 

+ " Ut hominem occisum. querar; non omnia quae in re praesenti accidisse 
credibile est, in oculis habebo? Non percussor ille subitus erumpet? non 
expavescet circumventus ? exclamabit, velTogabit, vel fugiet? non ferientem, 
non concidentem videbo ? non animo sanguis, et pallor, et gemitus, extremus 
denique exspirantis hiatus insidet?— Ubi veto miseratione opus erit, nobis ea, 
de quibus querimur accidisse credamus, atque id animo nostro persuadeamus. 
Nos ill! simiis, quos gravia, indigna, tristia passos queramur., Nee agumus 
rem, quasi alienam ; sed assumamus parumper ilium dolorem. Ita dicemus 
quae in siniili nostro casu dicturt essemus."— Lib. vi. 2. 31-34. 






THE PATHETIC PART. 437 

In the fifth place, it is necessary to attend to the proper lan- 
guage of the passions. We should observe in what manner any- 
one expresses himself who is under the power of a real and a 
strong passion ; and we shall always find his language unaffected 
and simple. It may be animated, indeed, with bold and strong 
figures, but it will have no ornament or finery. He is not at lei- 
sure to follow out the play of imagination. His mind being 
wholly seized by one object, which has heated it, he has no other 
aim, but to represent that in all its circumstances, as strongly as 
lie feels it. This must be the style of the orator, when he would 
be pathetic ; and this will be the style, if he speaks from real 
feeling ; bold, ardent, simple. No sort of description will then 
succeed, but what is written fervente calamo. If he stay till he 
can work up his style, and polish and adorn it, he will infallibly 
cool his own ardour ; and then he will touch the heart no more. 
His composition will become frigid ; it will be the language of 
one who describes, but who does not feel. We must take no- 
tice, that there is a great difference between painting to the im- 
agination, and painting to the heart. The one may be done 
coolly and at leisure ; the other must always be rapid and ar- 
dent. In the former, art and labour may be suffered to appear ; 
in the latter, no effect can follow, unless it seem to be the work of 
nature only. 

In the sixth place, avoid interweaving any thing of a foreign, 
nature with the pathetic part of a discourse. Beware of all 
digressions, which may interrupt or turn aside the natural 
course of the passion, when once it begins to rise and swell. 
Sacrifice all beauties, however bright and showy, which would 
divert the mind from the principal object, and which would amuse 
the imagination, rather than touch the heart. Hence comparisons 
are always dangerous, and generally quite improper, in the 
midst of passion. Beware even of reasoning unseasonably; 
or, at least, of carrying on a long and subtile train of rea- 
soning, on occasions when the principal aim is to excite warm 
emotions. 

In the last place, never attempt prolonging the pathetic too 
touch. Warm emotions are too violent to be lasting.* Study 
the proper time of making a retreat ; of making a transition from 

• " Nunquam debet esse longa miseratio. Nam, cnm etiam veros dolores 
n.itiget tcmpus, citius evanescat necesse est illa,quam dicendo effinximus, imago : 
in qua, si moramur, lacrymis fatigatur auditor, et requiescit, et ab illo, quern 
ceperat, impetu ad rationem redit. Non patiamur igitur frigescere hoc opus ; 
et affectum, cum ad summum perduxerimus, relinquaraus ; nee speremus fore, 
wt alicna mala quisquam diu ploret." — Quint, lib. vi. 1. 27 



430 LECTURE XXXII. 

the passionate to the calm tone ; in such a manner, however, as 
to descend without falling, by keeping up the same strain of 
sentiment that was carried on before, though now expressing it 
with more moderation. Above all things, beware of straining 
passion too far ; of attempting to raise it to unnatural heights. 
Preserve always a due regard to what the hearers will bear ; 
and remember, that he who stops not at the proper point ; who 
attempts to carry them farther, in passion, than they will follow 
him, destroys his whole design. By endeavouring to warm them 
too much, he takes the most effectual method of freezing them 
completely. 

Having given these rules concerning the pathetic, I shall 
give one example from Cicero, which will serve to illustrate seve- 
ral of them, particularly the last. It shall be taken from his 
last oration against Verres, wherein he describes the cruelty ex- 
ercised by Verres, when governor of Sicily, against one Gavius, 
a Roman citizen. This Gavius had made his escape from prison, 
into which he had been thrown by the governor ; and when just 
embarked at Messina, thinking himself now safe, had uttered 
some threats, that when he had once arrived at Rome, Verre3 
should hear of him, and be brought to account for having put a 
Roman citizen in chains. The chief magistrate of Messina, a 
creature of Verres's, instantly apprehends him, and gives inform- 
ation of his threatenings. The behaviour of Verres, on this occa- 
sion, is described in the most picturesque manner, and with all 
the colours which were proper, in order to excite against him the 
public indignation. He thanks the magistrate of Messina for his 
diligence, Filled with rage, he comes into the forum ; orders 
Gavius to be brought forth, the executioners to attend, and against 
the laws, and contrary to the well-known privileges of a Roman 
citizen, commands him to be stripped naked, bound, and scourged 
publicly in a cruel manner. Cicero then proceeds thus ; " Caede- 
batur virgis, in medio foro Messanae, civis Romanus, Judices !" 
every word rises above another in describing this flagrant enor- 
mity ; and " Judices," is brought out at the end with the greatest 
propriety ; " Csedebatur virgis, in medio foro Messanss, civis 
Romanus, Judices ! cum interea, nullus gemitus, nulla vox alia 
istius miseri, inter dolorem erepitumque plagarum audiebatur, 
nisi haec, civis Romanus sum. Hac se commemoratione civi- 
tatis, omnia verbera depulsurum a corpore arbitrabatur. Is non 
modo hoc non perfecit, ut virgarum vim deprecaretur, sed cum 
imploraret ssepius usurparetque nomen civis, crux, crux, inquam, 
infelici isto et asrumnoso, qui nunquam istam potestatem vide- 






THE PATHETIC PART. 439 

rat, comparabatur. O nomen dulce libertatis ! O jus eximium 
nostrse civitatis ! lex Porcia, legesque Sempronise ! — Hue- 
cine omnia tandem reciderunt, ut civis Romanus, in provincia 
populi Romani, in oppido foederatorum, ab eo, qui beneficio populi 
Romani fasces et secures haberet, deligatus, in foro, virgia 
csederetur !"* 

Nothing can be finer, nor better conducted than this passage. 
The circumstances are well chosen for exciting both the compas- 
sion of his hearers for Gavius, and their indignation against 
Verres. The style is simple ; and the passionate exclamation, 
the address to liberty and the laws, is well timed, and in the 
proper style of passion. The orator goes on to exaggerate 
Verres's cruelty still farther, by another very striking circum- 
stance. He ordered a gibbet to be erected for Gavius, not in a 
common place of execution, but just by the sea-shore, over 
against the coast of Italy. " Let him," said he, " who boasts 
so much of his being a Roman citizen, take a view from his gib- 
bet of his own country. — This base insult fiver a dying man is 
the least part of his guilt. It was not Gavius alone that Verres 
meant to insult ; but it was you, O Romans ! it was every citi- 
zen who now hears me ; in the person of Gavius, he scoffed at 
your rights and showed in what contempt he held the Roman 
name, and Roman liberties." 

Hitherto all is beautiful, animated, pathetic ; and the model 
would have been perfect, if Cicero had stopped at this point. 
But his redundant and florid genius carried him farther. He 
must needs interest not his hearers ordy, but the beasts, the moun- 
tains, and the stones, against Verres ; " Si hasc non ad cives 
Romanos, non ad amicos nostrse civitatis, non ad eos qui populi 
Romani nomen audissent ; denique si non ad homines, verum 

» " In the midst of the market-place of Messina, a Roman citizen, O judges ! 
was cruelly scourged with rods ; when in the meantime, amidst the noise of the 
blows which he suffered, no voice, no complaint of this unhappy man was heard, 
except this exclamation, Remember that I am a Roman citizen ! By pleading 
this privilege, of his birthright, he hoped to have stopped the strokes of the exe- 
cutioner. But his hopes were vain ; for, so far was he from being able to obtain 
thereby any mitigation of his torture, that when he continued to repeat this ex- 
clamation, and to plead the rights of a citizen, a cross, a cross, I say, was pre- 
paring to be set up for the execution of this unfortunate person, who never before 
had beheld that instrument of cruel death. O sacred awl honoured name of 
liberty ! O boasted and revered privilege of a Roman citizen ! O ye Porcian 
and Sempronian laws ! to this issue have ye all come, that a citizen of Rome, in a 
province of the Roman empire, within an allied city, should publicly, in a market- 
place, be loaded with chains, and beaten with rods, at the command of one who, 
from the favour of the Roman people alone, derived all his authority and ensigns 
of power !" — c. 62-3. 



410 LECTURE XXXI [. 

ad bestias, aut etaam, ut longius progrediar, si in aliqua desertis- 
sima solitudine, ad saxa et ad scopilos, heec conqueri et deplo- 
rare vellem, tamen omnia inuta atque inanima, tanta et tarn in- 
digna rerum atrocitate commoverentur."* This, with all the 
deference due to so eloquent an orator, we must pronounce to be 
declamatory, not pathetic. This is straining the language of pas-, 
sion too far. Every hearer sees this immediately to be a studied 
figure of rhetoric ; it may amuse him, but instead of inflaming 
him more, it, in truth, cools his passion. So dangerous it is to 
give scope to a flowery imagination, when one intends to make 
a strong and passionate impression. 

No other part of discourse remains now to be treated of, ex- 
cept the peroration, or conclusion. Concerning this, it is need- 
less to say much, because it must vary so considerably, according 
to the strain of the preceding discourse. Sometimes, the whole 
pathetic part comes in most properly at the peroration. Some- 
times, when the discourse has been entirely argumentative, it is 
fit to conclude with summing up the arguments, placing them 
in one view, and leaving the impression of them full and strong 
on the mind of the audience. For the great rule of conclusion, 
and what nature obviously suggests, is, to place that last 
on which we choose that the strength of our cause should 
rest. 

In sermons, inferences from what has been said, make a 
common conclusion. With regard to these, care should be 
taken, not only that they rise naturally, but (what is less com- 
monly attended to) that they should so much agree with the 
strain of sentiment throughout the discourse, as not to break the 
unity of the sermon. For inferences, how justly soever they 
may be deduced from the doctrine of the text, yet have a bad 
effect, if, at the conclusion of a discourse, they introduce some 
subject altogether new, and turn off our attention from the main 
object to which the preacher had directed our thoughts. They 
appear, in this case, like excrescences jutting out from the body, 
which form an unnatural addition to it ; and tend to enfeeble the 
impression which the composition, as a whole, is calculated to 
make. 

* " Were I employed in lamenting those instances of an atrocious oppression 
and cruelty, not among an assembly of Roman citizens, not among the allies ot 
our state, nor among those who had ever heard the name of the Roman people, 
not even among human creatures, but in the midst of the brute creation ; and to 
go farther, were I p During forth my lamentations to the stones, and to the rocks, in 
some remote and desert wilderness, even those mute and inanimate beings, would, 
at the recital of such shocking indignities, be thrown into commotion." — c. G7 



CONCLUSION. 441 

The most eloquent of the French, perhaps, indeed, of all 
modern orators, Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux, terminates in a very- 
moving manner, his funeral oration on the great Prince of 
Conde, with this return upon himself, and his old age : " Accept* 
O prince ! these last efforts of a voice which you once well knew. 
With you all my funeral discourses are now to end. Instead of 
deploring the death of others, henceforth it shall be my study to 
learn from you, how my own may be blessed. Happy, if warned 
by those grey hairs, of the account which I must soon give of my 
ministry, I reserve, solely for that flock whom I ought to feed 
with the word of life, the feeble remains of a voice which now 
trembles, and of an ardour which is now on the point of being 
extinct."* 

In all discourses, it is a matter of importance to hit the precise 
time of concluding, so as to bring our discourse just to a 
point ; neither ending abruptly and unexpectedly ; nor disap- 
pointing the expectation of the hearers, when they look for the 
close ; and continuing to hover round and round the conclu- 
sion, till they become heartily tired of us. We should endeavour 
to go off with a good grace ; not to end with a languishing and 
drawling sentence ; but to close Avith dignity and spirit, that 
we may leave the minds of the hearers warm ; and dismiss 
them with a favourable impression of the subject and of the 
speaker. 



LECTURE XXXI11. 

PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 

HAVING treated of several general heads relating to elo- 
quence, or public speakiug, I now proceed to another very im- 
portant part of the subject yet remaining, that is, the Pronuncia- 
tion, or Delivery of a Discourse. How much stress was laid 
upon this by the most eloquent of all orators, Demosthenes, 

* " Agreez ces demiers efforts d'une voix qui vous fut connue. Vous met- 
trez fin a tous ces discours. Au lieu de ddplorer la mort des autres, grand prince ! 
dorenavant je veux apprendre de vous, a rendre la mienne sainte. Heureux, si, 
averti par ses cheveux blancs du compte que je dois rendre de mon administra- 
tion, je reserve au troupeau que je. dois nourrir de la parole de vie, les restes 
d'une voix qui tombe, et d'une ardeur qui s'6teint." — These are the last senten- 
tences of that oration : but the whole of the peroration from that passage, " Venez, 
peoples, venez maintenant," &c, though it is too long for insertion, is a great 
masterpiece of pathetic eloquence. 



4!2 LECTURE XXXU1. 

appears from a noted saying of his, related both by Cicero and 
Quintilian ; when being asked, what was the first point in ora- 
tory ? he answered, Delivery ; and being asked, what was the 
second ; and afterwards, what was the third ? he still answered, 
Delivery. There is no wonder that he should have rated this so 
high, and that for improving himself in it, he should have em- 
ployed those assiduous and painful labours, which all the ancients 
take so much notice of: for, beyond doubt, nothing is of more 
importance. To superficial thinkers, the management of the 
voice and gesture, in public speaking, may appear to relate to 
decoration only, and to be one of the inferior arts of catching an 
audience. But this is far from being the case. It is intimately 
connected with what is, or ought to be, the end of all public speak- 
ing, persuasion ; and therefore deserves the study of the most 
grave and serious speakers, as much as of those whose only aim 
it is to please. 

For, let it be considered, whenever we address ourselves to 
others by words, our intention certainly is to make some im- 
pression on those to whom we speak ; it is to convey to them 
our own ideas and emotions. Now the tone of our voice, our 
looks, and gestures, interpret our ideas and emotions no less 
than words do ; nay, the impression they make on others, is 
frequently much stronger than any that words can make. We 
often see, that an expressive look, or a passionate cry, unac- 
companied by words, conveys to others more forcible ideas, and 
rouses within them stronger passions, than can be communicated 
by the most eloquent discourse. The signification of our senti- 
ments, made by tones and gestures, has this advantage above 
that made by words, that it is the language of nature. It is that 
method of interpreting our mind which nature has dictated to 
all, and which is understood by all ; whereas, words are only 
arbitrary conventional symbols of our ideas ; and, by conse- 
quence, must make a more feeble impression. So true is this, 
that, to render words fully significant, they must, almost in every 
case, receive some aid from the manner of pronunciation and 
delivery ; and he who, in speaking, should employ bare words, 
without enforcing them by proper tones and accents, would 
leave us with a faint and indistinct impression, often with a 
doubtful and ambiguous conception of what he had delivered. 
Nay, so close is the connexion between certain sentiments and 
the proper manner of pronouncing them, that he who does not 
pronounce them after that manner, can never persuade us, that 
he believes, or feels, the sentiments themselves. His delivery 



PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 443 

may be such as to give the lie to all that he asserts. When 
Marcus Callidius accused one of an attempt to poison him, bat 
enforced his accusation in a languid manner, and without any 
warmth or earnestness of delivery, Cicero, who pleaded for the 
accused person, improved this into an argument of the falsity of 
the charge, " An tu, M. Callidi, nisi fingeres, sic ageres ?" In 
Shakespeare's Richard II. the Duchess of York thus impeaches 
the sincerity of her husband : 

Pleads he in earnest ?— Look upon his face. 

His eyes do drop no tears; his prayers are jest; 

His words come from his mouth ; ours, from our breast ; 

He prays but faintly, and would be denied ; 

We pray with heart and soul. 

But, I believe it is needless to say any more in order to 
show the high importance of a good delivery. I proceed, there- 
fore, to such observations as appear to me most useful to be 
made on this head. 

The great objects which every public speaker will naturally 
have in his eye in forming his delivery, are, first, to speak so as 
to be fully and easily understood by all who hear him ; and next, 
to speak with grace and force, so as to please and to move his 
audience. Let us consider what is most important with respect 
to each of these.* 

In order to be fully and easily understood, the four chief 
requisites are, a due degree of loudness of voice ; distinctness ; 
slowness ; and propriety of pronunciation. 

The first attention of every public speaker, doubtless, must 
be, to make himself be heard by all those to whom he speaks. 
He must endeavour to fill with his voice, the space occupied by 
the assembly. This power of voice, it may be thought, is 
wholly a natural talent. It is so in a good measure ; but, how- 
ever, may receive considerable assistance from art. Much de- 
pends for this purpose on the proper pitch, and management of 
the voice. Every man has three pitches in his voice ; the high, 
the middle, and the low one. The high, is that which he uses 
in calling aloud to some one at a distance. The low, is when he 
approaches to a whisper. The middle, is that which he employs 
in common conversation, and which he should generally use in 
public discourse. For it is a great mistake, to imagine, that 
one must take the highest pitch of his voice, in order to be 
well heard by a great assembly. This is confounding two 

* On this whole subject, Mr. Sheridan's Lectures on Elocution are very wor 
thy of being consulted ; and several hints are here taken from them. 



444 LECTURE XXXIII. 

things which are different, loudness, or strength of sound, with 
the key or note, on which we speak. A speaker may render 
his voice louder, without altering the key ; and we shall always 
be able to give most body, most persevering force of sound, to 
that pitch of voice, to which in conversation we are accustomed. 
Whereas, by setting out on our highest pitch or key, we cer- 
tainly allow ourselves less compass, and are likely to strain our 
voice before we have done. We shall fatigue ourselves, and 
speak with pain ; and whenever a man speaks with pain to him- 
self, he is always heard with pain by his audience. Give the 
voice, therefore, full strength and swell of sound ; but always 
pitch it on your ordinary speaking key. Make it a constant 
rule never to utter a greater quantity of voice, than you can af- 
ford without pain to yourselves, and without any extraordinary 
effort. As long as you keep within these bounds, the other 
organs of speech will be at liberty to discharge their several 
offices with ease ; and you will always have your voice under 
command. But whenever you transgress these bounds, you 
give up the reins, and have no longer any management of it. It 
is a useful rule too, in order to be well heard, to fix our eye on 
some of the most distant persons in the assembly, and to con- 
sider ourselves as speaking to them. We naturally and me- 
chanically utter our words with such a degree of strength, as to 
make ourselves be heard by one to whom we address ourselves, 
provided he be within the reach of our voice. As this is the 
case in common conversation, it will hold also in public speak- 
ing. But remember, that in public as well as in conversation, 
it is possible to offend by speaking too loud. This extreme hurts 
the ear, by making the voice come upon it in rumbling indistinct 
masses ; besides its giving the speaker the disagreeable appear- 
ance of one who endeavours to compel assent, by mere vehe- 
mence and force of sound. 

In the next place, to being well heard, and clearly understood, 
distinctness of articulation contributes more, perhaps, than mere 
loudness of sound. The quantity of sound necessary to fill 
even a large space, is smaller than is commonly imagined ; and 
with distinct articulation, a man of a weak voice will make it 
reach farther than the strongest voice can reach without it 
To this, therefore, every public speaker ought to pay great 
attention. He must give every sound which he utters its due 
proportion, and make every syllable, and even every letter in 
the word which he pronounces, be heard distinctly ; without 
slurring, whispering, or suppressing any of the proper sounds 



PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERY. 445 

In the third place, in order to articulate distinctly, mode- 
ration is requisite with regard to the speed of pronouncing. 
Precipitancy of speech confounds all articulation, and all mean- 
ing. I need scarcely observe that there may be also an extreme 
on the opposite side. It is obvious, that a lifeless, drawling pro- 
nunciation, which allows the minds of the hearers to be always 
outrunning the speaker, must render every discourse insipid and 
fatiguing. But the extreme of speaking too fast is much more 
common, and requires the more to be guarded against, because, 
when it has grown up into a habit, few errors are more difficult 
to be corrected. To pronounce with a proper degree of slow- 
ness, and with full and clear articulation, is the first thing to be 
studied by all who begin to speak in public ; and cannot be too 
much recommended to them. Such a pronunciation gives weight 
and dignity to their discourse. It is a great assistance to the 
voice, by the pauses and rests which it allows it more easily to 
make; and it enables the speaker to swell all his sounds both 
with more force, and more music. It assists him also in preser- 
ving a due command of himself; whereas a rapid and hurried 
manner is apt to excite that flutter of spirits, which is the great- 
est enemy to all right execution in the way of oratory. " Promp- 
tum sit os," says Quintilian, " non prseceps, moderatum, non 
lentum." 

After these fundamental attentions to the pitch and manage 
ment of the voice, to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree 
of slowness of speech, what a public speaker must, in the fourth 
place, study, is, propriety of pronunciation ; or the giving to 
every word, which he utters, that sound, which the most polite 
usage of the language appropriates to it ; in opposition to 
broad, vulgar, or provincial pronunciation. This is requisite 
both for speaking intelligibly, and for speaking with grace or 
beauty. Instructions concerning this article can be given by 
the living voice only. But there is one observation which it 
may not be improper here to make. In the English language, 
every word which consists of more syllables than one, has one 
accented syllable. The accent rests sometimes on the vowel, 
sometimes on the consonant. Seldom, or never, is there more 
than one accented syllable in any English word, however long ; 
and the genius of the language requires the voice to mark that 
syllable by a stronger percussion, and to pass more slightly over 
the rest. Now, after we have learned the proper seats of these 
accents, it is an important rule, to give every word just the same 
accent in public speaking, as in common discourse. Many per- 



446 LECTURE XXXIII. 

sons err in this respect. When they speak in public and with 
solemnity, they pronounce the syllables in a different manner 
from what they do at other times. They dwell upon them, and 
protract them ; they multiply accents on the same word ; from a 
mistaken notion, that it gives gravity and force to their discourse, 
and adds to the pomp of public declamation. Whereas, tins is 
one of the greatest faults that can be committed in pronunciation ; 
it makes what is called a theatrical or mouthing manner ; and 
gives an artificial affected air to speech, which detracts greatly 
both from its agreeableness, and its impression. 

I proceed to treat next of those higher parts of delivery, by 
studying which, a speaker has something farther in view than 
merely to render himself intelligible, and seeks to give grace 
and force to what he utters. These may be comprised under 
four heads ; emphasis, pauses, tones, and gestures. Let me only 
premise, in general, to what I am to say concerning them, that 
attention to these articles of delivery is by no means to be con- 
fined, as some might be apt to imagine, to the more elaborate and 
pathetic parts of a discourse. There is, perhaps, as great atten- 
tion requisite, and as much skill displayed, in adapting emphasis, 
pauses, tones and gestures, properly, to calm and plain speak- 
ing ; and the effect of a just and graceful delivery will, in every 
part of a subject, be found of high importance for commanding 
attention, and enforcing what is spoken. 

First ; let us consider emphasis. By this is meant a stronger 
and fuller sound of voice, by which we distinguish the accented 
syllable of some word, on which we design to lay particular 
stress, and to show how it affects the rests of the sentence. 
Sometimes the emphatic word must be distinguished by a par- 
ticular tone of voice, as well as by a stronger accent. On the 
right management of the emphasis depend the whole life and 
spirit of every discourse. If no emphasis be placed on any 
words, not only is discourse rendered heavy and lifeless, but the 
meaning left often ambiguous. If the emphasis be placed 
wrong, we pervert and confound the meaning wholly. To give 
a common instance : such a simple question as this, " Do you 
ride to town to-day ?" is capable of no fewer than four different 
acceptations, according as the emphasis is differently placed on 
the words. If it be pronounced thus : Do you ride to town 
to-day ? the answer may naturally be, No ; I send my servant 
in my stead. If thus ; Do you ride to town to-day ? Answer, 
No, I intend to walk. Do you ride to town to-day ? No, I ride 
out in the fields. Do you ride to town to-day 1 No; but I 



PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 447 

shall to-morrow. In like manner, in solemn discourse, the whole 
force and beauty of an expression often depend on the accented 
word ; and we may present to the hearers quite different views of 
the same sentiment, by placing the emphasis differently. In the 
following words of our Saviour, observe in what different lights 
the thought is placed, according as the words are pronounced. 
u Judas, betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss ?" Betray- 
est thou — makes the reproach turn on the infamy of treachery. 
Betrayest thou — makes it rest upon Judas's connection with his 
master. Betrayest thou the Son of Man — rests it upon our 
Saviour's personal character and eminence. Betrayest thou the 
Son of Man with a kiss ? — turns it upon his prostituting the 
signal of peace and friendship, to the purpose of a mark of de- 
struction. 

In order to acquire the proper management of the emphasis, 
the great rule, and indeed the only rule possible to be given, is, 
that the speaker study to attain a just conception of the force 
and spirit of those sentiments which he is to pronounce. For 
to lay the emphasis with exact propriety, is a constant exercise 
of good sense and attention. It is far from being an incon- 
siderable attainment. It is one of the greatest trials of a true 
and just taste ; and must arise from feeling delicately ourselves, 
and from judging accurately of what is fittest to strike the feel- 
ings of others. There is as great a difference between a chap- 
ter of the Bible, or any other piece of plain prose, read by one 
who places the several emphases every where with taste and 
judgment, and by one who neglects or mistakes them, as there is 
between the same tune played by the most masterly hand, or by 
the most bungling performer. 

In all prepared discourses, it would be of great use, if they 
were read over or rehearsed in private, with this particular 
view, to search for the proper emphasis, before they were pro- 
nounced in public ; marking, at the same time, with a pen, the 
emphatical words in every sentence, or at least in the most 
weighty and affecting parts of the discourse, and fixing them 
wellinthe memory. Were this attention oftener bestowed, were 
this part of pronunciation studied with more exactness, and not 
left to the moment of delivery, as is commonly done, public 
speakers would find their care abundantly repaid, by the remark- 
able effects which it would produce upon their audience. Let 
me caution, at the same time, against one error, that of multi- 
plying emphatical words too much. It is only by a prudent 
reserve in the use of them, that we can give them any weight 



418 LECTURE XX XI II. 

If they recur too often ; if a speaker attempts to render every 
thing which he says of high importance, by a multitude of 
strong emphases, we soon learn to pay little regard to them. 
To crowd every sentence with emphatical words, is like crowd- 
ing all the pages of a book with Italic characters, which, as to 
the effect, is just the same with using no such distinctions at all. 

Next to emphasis, the pauses in speaking demand attention. 
These are of two kinds ; first, emphatical pauses ; and next, such 
as mark the distinctions of sense. An emphatical pause is made, 
after something has been said of peculiar moment, and on which 
we want to fix the hearer's attention. Sometimes, before such a 
thing is said, we usher it in with a pause of this nature. Such 
pauses have the same effect as a strong emphasis ; aud are sub- 
ject to the same rules ; especially to the caution just now given, 
of not repeating them too frequently. For as they excite un- 
common attention, and of course raise expectation, if the im 
portance of the matter be not fully answerable to such expecta- 
tion, they occasion disappointment and disgust. 

But the most frequent and the principal use of pauses, is to 
mark the divisions of the sense, and at the same time to allow 
the speaker to draw his breath ; and the proper and graceful 
adjustment of such pauses, is one of the most nice and difficult 
articles in delivery. In all public speaking, the management of 
the breath requires a good deal of care, so as not to be obliged 
to divide words from one another, which have so intimate a con- 
nection, that they ought to be pronounced with the same breath, 
and without the least separation. Many a sentence is miserably 
mangled, and the force of the emphasis totally lost, by divisions 
being made in the wrong place. To avoid this, every one, while 
he is speaking, should be very careful to provide a full supply of 
breath for what he is to utter. It is a great mistake to imagine, 
that the breath must be drawn only at the end of a period, when 
the voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be gathered at the 
intervals of the period, when the voice is only suspended for a 
moment ; and by this management, one may have always a 
sufficient stock for carrying on the longest sentence without im- 
proper interruptions. 

If any one, in public speaking, shall have formed to himself 
a certain melody or tune, which requires rest and pauses of its 
own, distinct from those of the sense, he has, undoubtedly, con- 
tracted one of the worst habits into which a public speaker can 
fall. It is the sense which should always rule the pauses of the 
voice j for wherever there is any sensible suspension of the 



PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 449 

voice, Ihi? hearer is always led to expect somewhat corresponding 
in the meaning. Pauses, in public discourse, must be formed 
upon the manner in which we utter ourselves in ordinary sensible 
conversation ; and not upon the stiff artificial manner which we 
acquire, from reading books according to the common punctua- 
tion. The general run of punctuation is very arbitrary ; often 
capricious and false ; and dictates an uniformity of tone in the 
pauses, which is extremely disagreeable : for we are to observe 
that to render pauses graceful and expressive, they must not 
only be made in the right place, but also be accompanied with a 
proper tone of voice, by which the nature of these pauses is inti- 
mated ; much more than by the length of them, which can never 
be exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a slight and simple 
suspension of voice that is proper ; sometimes a degree of 
cadence in the voice is required ; and sometimes that peculiar 
tone and cadence, which denote the sentence finished. In all 
these cases, we are to regulate ourselves, by attending to the 
manner in which nature teaches us to speak, when engaged in 
real and earnest discourse with others. 

When we are reading or reciting verse, there is a peculiar 
difficulty in making the pauses justly. The difficulty arises from 
the melody of verse, which dictates to the ear pauses or rests of 
its own ; and to adjust and compound these properly with the 
pauses of the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor oifend the 
understanding, is so very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we 
so seldom meet with good readers of poetry. There are two 
kinds of pauses that belong to the music of verse ; one is, the 
pause at the end <)f the line ; and the other, the caesural pause 
in the middle of it. With regard to the pause at the end of the 
line, which marks that strain or verse to be finished, rhyme ren- 
ders this always sensible, and in some measure compels us to 
observe it in our pronunciation. In blank verse, where there 
is a greater liberty permitted of running the lines into one 
anothrr, sometimes without any suspension in the sense, it has 
been made a question, whether in reading such verse with pro- 
priety, any regard at all should be paid to the close of a line ? 
On the stage, where the appearance of speaking in verse should 
always be avoided, there can, I think, be no doubt, that the close 
of such lines as make no pause in the sense, should not be ren- 
dered perceptible to the ear. But on other occasions, this were 
improper : for what is the use of melody, or for what end has 
the poet composed in verse, if, in reading his lines, we suppress 

2 a 



450 LECTURE XXXIIT. 

his numbers; and degrade them, by our pronunciation, into 
mere prose ? We ought, therefore, certainly to read blank verse 
so, as to make every line sensible to the eat*. At the same time, 
in doing so, every appearance of sing-song and tone must be 
carefully guarded against. The close of the line, where it makes 
no pause in the meaning, ought to be marked, not by such a 
tone as is used in finishing a sentence ; but without either letting 
the voice fall, or elevating it, it should be marked only by such 
a slight suspension of sound, as may distinguish the passage 
from one line to another without injuring the meaning. 

The other kind of musical pause, is that which falls some- 
where about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two 
hemistichs ; a pause, not so great as that which belongs to the 
close of the line, but still sensible to an ordinary ear. This, 
which is called the csesural pause, in the French heroic verse 
falls uniformly in the middle of the line. In the English, it may 
fall after the 4th, 5th, 6th, or 7th syllables in the line, and no other. 
Where the verse is so constructed, that this csesural pause 
coincides with the slightest pause or division in the sense, the line 
can be read easily ; as in the two first verses of Mr. Pope's 
Messiah : 

Ye nymphs of Solyraa ! begin the song ; 

To heavenly themes, sublimer strains belong. 

But if it shall happen that words, which have such a strict and 
intimate connection as not to bear even a momentary separation, 
are divided from one another by this caesural pause, we then 
feel a sort of struggle between the sense and the sound, which 
renders it difficult to read such lines gracefully. The rule of 
proper pronunciation in such cases is, t*- regard only the pause 
which the sense forms ; and to read the line accordingly. The 
neglect of the csesural pause may make the line sound somewhat 
unharmoniously ; but the effect would be much worse, if the 
sense were sacrificed to the sound. For instance, in the follow- 
ing line of Milton : 

• What in me is dark, 



Illumine ; what is low, raise and support — 

The sense clearly dictates the pause after " illumine," at the end 
of the third syllable, which, in reading, ought to be made accord- 
ingly ; though, if the melody only were to be regarded, u illumine" 
should be connected with what follows, and the pause not made 



PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 451 

till the 4th or 6th syllable. So, in the following line of Mr 
Pope's (Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot :) 

I sit, with tdd civility I read— 

The ear plainly points out the csesural pause as falling after 
* sad," the 4th syllable. But it would be very bad reading to 
make any pause there, so as to separate " sad" and u civility." 
The sense admits of no other pause than after the second sylla- 
ble " sit," which therefore must be the only pause made in the 
reading. 

I proceed to treat next of tones in pronunciation, which are 
different both from emphasis and pauses ; consisting in the mo- 
dulation of the voice, the notes or variations of sound which we 
employ in public speaking. How much of the propriety, the 
force and grace of discourse, must depend on these, will appear 
from this single consideration ; that to almost every sentiment 
we utter, more especially to every strong emotion, nature hath 
adapted some peculiar tone of voice ; insomuch, that he who 
should tell another that he was very angry, or much grieved, in 
a tone which did not suit such emotions, instead of being be- 
lieved, would be laughed at. Sympathy is one of the most 
powerful principles by which persuasive discourse works its 
effect. The speaker endeavours to transfuse into his hearers his 
own sentiments and emotions ; which he can never be successful 
in doing, unless he utters them in such a manner as to convince 
the hearers that he feels them.* The proper expression of tones, 
therefore, deserves to be attentively studied by every one who 
would be a successful orator. 

The greatest and most material instruction which can be 
given for this purpose is, to form the tones of public speaking 
upon the tones of sensible and animated conversation. We may 
observe that every man, when he is much in earnest in common 
discourse, when he is engaged in speaking on some subject which 

• " All that passes in the ' .nind of man may be reduced to two classes, 
which I call ideas and emotions. By ideas, 1 mean all thoughts which rise 
and pass in succession in the mind. By emotions, all exertions of the mind in 
arranging, combining, and separating its ideas ; as well as all the effects pro- 
duced on the mind itself by those ideas, from the more violent agitation of the 
passions, to the calmer feelings produced by the operation of the intellect and 
the fancy. In short, thought is the object of the one, internal feeling of the 
other. That which serves to express the former, I call the language of ideas ; 
and the latter, the language of emotions. Words are the signs of the one, tones 
of the other. Without the use of these two sorts of language, it is impossible to 
communicate through the ear all that passes in the mind of man."— -Shkrijuan 
on the Art of Reading. 



462 LECTURE XXX III. 

interests him nearly, has an eloquent or persuasive tone and 
manner. What is the reason of our being often so frigid and 
unpersuasive in public discourse, but our departing from the 
natural tone of speaking, and delivering ourselves in an affected 
artificial manner ? Nothing can be more absurd than to imagine, 
that as soon as one mounts a pulpit, or rises in a public assem- 
bly, he is instantly to lay aside the voice with which he expresses 
himself in private ; to assume a new, studied tone, and a cadence 
altogether foreign to his natural manner. This has vitiated all 
delivery ; this has given rise to cant and tedious monotony, in 
the different kinds of modern public speaking especially in the 
pulpit. Men departed from nature ; and sought to give a beauty or 
force, as they imagined, to their discourse, by substituting certain 
studied musical tones, in the room of the genuine expressions of 
sentiment, which the voice carries in natural discourse. Let 
every public speaker guard against this error. Whether he 
speak in a private room, or in a great assembly, let him remember 
that he still speaks. Follow nature ; consider how she teaches 
you to utter any sentiment or feeling of your heart. Imagine a 
subject of debate started in conversation among grave and wise 
men, and yourself bearing a share in it. Think after what 
manner, with what tones and inflections of voice, you would on 
such an occasion express yourself, when you were most in earnest, 
and sought most to be listened to. Carry these with you to the 
bar, to the pulpit, or to any public assembly ; let these be the 
foundation of your manner of pronouncing there ; and you will 
take the surest method of rendering your delivery both agreeable 
and persuasive. 

I have said, let these conversation-tones be the foundation 
of public pronunciation ; for, on some occasions, solemn public 
speaking requires them to be exalted beyond the strain of com- 
mon discourse. In a formal studied oration, the elevation of the 
style, and the harmony of the sentences, prompt almost necessa- 
rily, a modulation of voice more rounded, and bordering more 
upon music, than conversation admits. This gives rise to what 
is called the declaiming manner. But though this mode of pro- 
nunciation runs considerably beyond ordinary discourse, yet 
still it must have for its basis the natural tones of grave and dig- 
nified conversation. I must observe, at the same time, that the 
constant indulgence of a declamatory manner is not favourable 
either to good composition or good delivery ; and is in hazard 
of betraying public speakers into that monotony of tone and ca- 
dence, which is so generally complained of. Whereas, he who forms 



PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 453 

the general run of his delivery upon a speaking manner, is not 
likely ever to become disagreeable through monotony. He will 
have the same natural variety in his tones, which a person has 
in conversation. Indeed, the perfection of delivery requires both 
these different manners, that of speaking with liveliness and ease, 
and that of declaiming with stateliness and dignity, to be pos- 
sessed by one man ; and to be employed by him, according as the 
different parts of his discourse require either the one or the other. 
This is a perfection which is not attained by many ; the great- 
est part of public speakers allowing their delivery to be formed 
altogether accidentally ; according as some turn of voice ap- 
pears to them most beautiful, or some artificial model has 
caught their fancy ; and acquiring, by these means, a habit of 
pronunciation which they can never vary. But the capital direc- 
tion, which ought never to be forgotten, is, to copy the proper 
tones for expressing every sentiment from those which nature 
dictates to us, in conversation with others ; to speak always 
with her voice, and not to form to ourselves a fantastic public 
manner, from an absurd fancy of its being more beautiful than a 
natural one.* 

It now remains to treat of gesture, or what is called action 
in public discourse. Some nations animate their words in com- 
mon conversation, with many more motions of the body than 
others do. The French and the Italians are in this respect, 
much more sprightly than we. But there is no nation, hardly 
any person so phlegmatic, as not to accompany their words with 
some actions and gesticulations, on all occasions, when they are 
much in earnest. It is therefore unnatural in a public speaker, 
it is inconsistent with that earnestness and seriousness which he 
ought to show in all affairs of moment, to remain quite un- 
moved in his outward appearance ; and to let the words drop 
from his mouth, without any expression of meaning or warmth in 
his gesture. 

The fundamental rule as to propriety of action, is undoubt- 
edly the same with what I gave as to propriety of tone. 
Attend to the looks and gestures, in which earnestness, indig- 

• " Loquere," (says an author of the last century, who has written a treatise 
in verse, de Gestn et Voce Oratoris,) 

"Loquere; hoc vitium commune, loquatur 

Ut nemo; at tensa declamitet omnia voce. 
Tu loquere, ut mos est hominum ; boat et latrat ille ; 
Ille ululat ; rudit hie ; (tari si talia dignum est) 
Non hominem vox ulla sonat ratione loquentem." 

Joannes Lucas, de Gestu et Voce.— Lib. ii Paris, 1675. 



454 LECTURE XXXI1T. 

nation, compassion, or any other emotion, discovers itself to 
most advantage in the common intercourse of men ; and let 
these be your model. Some of these looks and gestures are 
common to all men ; and there are also certain peculiarities 
of manner which distinguish every individual. A public speaker 
must take that manner which is most natural to himself. For 
it is here, just as in tones. It is not the business of a speaker 
to form to himself a certain set of motions and gestures, which 
he thinks most becoming and agreeable, and to practise these 
in public, without their having any correspondence to the man- 
ner which is natural to him in private. His gestures and 
motions ought all to carry that kind of expression which nature 
has dictated to him ; and unless this be the case, it is impos- 
sible, by means of any study, to avoid their appearing stiff and 
forced. 

However, although nature must be the groundwork, I admit 
that there is room in this matter for some study and art. For 
many persons are naturally ungraceful in the motions which 
they make ; and this ungracefulness might, in part at least, be 
reformed by application and care. The study of action in pub- 
lic speaking, consists chiefly in guarding against awkward and 
disagreeable motions, and in learning to perform such as are 
natural to the speaker, in the most becoming manner. For this 
end it has been advised by writers on this subject, to practise 
before a mirror, where one may see and judge of his own ges- 
tures. But I am afraid, persons are not always the best judges 
of the gracefulness of their own motions ; and one may declaim 
long enough before a mirror, without correcting any of his 
faults. The judgment of a friend, whose good taste they can 
trust, will be found A much greater advantage to beginners, 
than any mirror they can use. With regard to particular rules 
concerning action and gesticulation, Quintilian has delivered a 
great many, in the last chapter of the eleventh book of his In- 
stitutions ; and all the modern writers on this subject have 
done little else but translate them. I am not of opinion that 
such rules, delivered either by the voice or on paper, can be of 
much use, unless persons saw them exemplified before their 
eyes.* 

* The few following hints only I shall adventure to throw out, in case they 
may be of any service. When speaking in public, one should study to preserve 
as much dignity as possible, in the whole attitude of the body. An erect posture 
is generally to be chosen ; standing firm, so as to have the fullest and freest 
command of all his motions; any inclination which is used should be forwards 
towards the hearers, which is a natural expression of earnestness. As for the 



PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 455 

I shall only add further on this head, that in order to succeed 
well in delivery, nothing is more necessary than for a speaker 
to guard against a certain flutter of spirits, which is peculiarly 
incident to those who begin to speak in public. He must en- 
deavour above all things to be recollected, and master of himself. 
For this end, he will find nothing of more use to him than to 
study to become wholly engaged in his subject ; to be possessed 
with a sense of its importance or seriousness ; to be concerned 
much more to persuade than to please. He will generally please 
most, when pleasing is not his sole nor chief aim. This is the 
only rational and proper method of raising one's self above that 
timid and bashful regard to an audience, which is so ready to 
disconcert a speaker, both as to what he is to say, and as to his- 
manner of saying it. 

I cannot conclude without an earnest admonition to guard 
against all affectation, which is the certain ruin of good delivery. 
Let your manner, whatever it is, be your own ; neither imitated 
from another, nor assumed upon some imaginary model, which 
is unnatural to you. Whatever is native, even though accom- 
panied with several defects, yet is likely to please ; because it 
shows us a man ; because it has the appearance of coming from 
the heart. Whereas a delivery, attended with several acquired 
graces and beauties, if it be not easy and free, if it betray the 
marks of art and affectation, never fails to disgust. To attain 
an extremely correct, and perfectly graceful delivery, is what 
few can expect ; so many natural talents being requisite to con- 
cur in forming it. But to attain, what as to the effect is very 
little inferior, a forcible, and persuasive manner, is within the 
power of most persons ; if they will only unlearn false and cor- 

countenance, the chief rule is, that it should correspond with the nature of the 
discourse ; and when no particular emotion is expressed, a serious and manly 
look is always the best. The eyes should never be fixed close on any one object, 
but move easily round the audience. In the motions made with the hands, con- 
sist the chief part of gesture in speaking. The ancients condemned all motions 
i>erformed by the left hand alone ;,but I am not sensible that these are always of- 
fensive, though it is natural for the right hand to be more frequently employed. 
Warm emotions demand the motion of both hands corresponding together. But 
whether one gesticulates with one or with both hands, it is an important rule, 
that all his motions should be free and easy. Narrow and straitened movements 
are generally ungraceful ; for which reason, motions made with the hands are 
directed to proceed from the shoulder rather than from the elbow. Perpendicular 
movements too with the hands, that is, in the straight line up and down, which 
Shakspeare in Hamlet calls "sawing the air with the hand," are seldom good. 
Oblique motions are, in general, the most graceful. Too sudden and nimble mo- 
tions should be likewise avoided. Earnestness can be fully expressed without 
them. Shakspeare 's directions on this head are full of good sense: " Use all 
gently," says he; "and in the very toueu: and tempest of passion, acquire a 
temperance that may give it smoothness." 



466 LECTURE XXXIV. 

rapt habits ; if they will allow themselves to follow nature, and 
will speak in public as they do in private, when they speak in 
earnest and from the heart. If one has naturally any gross de- 
fects in his voice or gestures, he begins at the wrong end, if he 
attempts at reforming them only when he is to speak in public. 
He should begin with rectifying them in his private manner of 
speaking ; and then carry to the public the right habit he has 
formed. For, when a speaker is engaged in a public discourse, 
he should not be then employing his attention about his manner 
or thinking of his tones and his gestures. If he be so employed, 
study and affectation will appear. He ought to be then quite 
in earnest ; wholly occupied with his subject and his sentiments ; 
leaving nature, and previously formed habits, to prompt and 
suggest his manner of delivery. 



LECTURE XXXTV. 

MEANS OP IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 

I HAVE now treated fully of the different kinds of public 
speaking, of the composition, and of the delivery of a discourse. 
Before I finish this subject, it may be of use to suggest some 
things concerning the properest means of improvement in the 
art of public speaking, and the most necessary studies for that 
purpose. 

To be an eloquent speaker, in the proper sense of the word, 
is far from being either a common or an easy attainment. In- 
deed, to compose a florid harangue on some popular topic, and 
to deliver it so as to amuse an audience, is a matter not very 
difficult. But thougli some praise be due to this, yet the idea 
which I have endeavoured to give of eloquence, is much higher. 
It is a great exertion of the human powers. It is the art of 
being persuasive and commanding ; the art, not of pleasing the 
fancy merely, but of speaking both to the understanding and to 
the heart ; of interesting the hearers in such a degree, as to 
seize and carry them along with us ; and to leave them with a 
deep and strong impression of what they have heard. How 
many talents, natural and acquired, must concur for carrying 
this to perfection ! A strong, lively, and warm imagination ; 
quick sensibility of heart, joined with solid judgment, good 
sense, and presence of mind ; all improved by great and long 
attention to style and composition ; and supported also by the 



IMPROVEMENT IN ELOQUENCE. 457 

exterior, yet important qualifications, of a graceful manner, a 
presence not ungainly, and a full and tuneable voice. How 
little reason to wonder, that a perfect and accomplished orator 
should be one of the characters that is most rarely to be 
found ! 

Let us not despair, however. Between mediocrity and 
perfection, there is a very wide interval. There are many in- 
termediate spaces, which may be filled up with honour ; and 
the more rare and difficult that complete perfection is, the 
greater is the honour of approaching to it, though we do not 
fully attain it. The number of orators who stand in the highest 
class is, perhaps, smaller than the number of poets who are 
foremost in poetic fame ; but the study of oratory has this ad- 
vantage above that of poetry, that, in poetry, one must be an 
eminently good performer, or he is not supportable : 

M ediocribus esse poetis, 
Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnae.* 

In eloquence this does not hold. There, one may possess a 
moderate station with dignity. Eloquence admits of a great 
many different forms ; plain and simple, as well as high and 
pathetic ; and a genius that cannot reach the latter, may shine 
with much reputation and usefulness in the former. 

Whether nature or art contribute most to form an orator, is 
a trifling inquiry. In all attainments whatever, nature must 
be the prime agent. She must bestow the original talents. 
She must sow the seeds ; but culture is requisite for bringing 
these seeds to perfection. Nature must always have done 
somewhat ; but a great deal will always be left to be done by 
art. This is certain, that study and discipline are^more neces- 
sary for the improvement of natural genius, in oratory, than they 
are in poetry. What I mean is, that though poetry be capable 
of receiving assistance from critical art, yet a poet, without any 
aid from art, by the force of genius alone, can rise higher than a 
public speaker can do, who has never given attention to the 
rules of style, composition, and delivery. Homer formed him- 
self ; Demosthenes and Cicero were formed by the help of much 
labour, and of many assistances derived from the labour of 
others. After these preliminary observations, let us proceed to 
the main design of this lecture ; to treat of the means to be 
used for improvement in eloquence. 

* " For God, and man, and lettered post denies, 
That poets ever are of middling size." — Francis. 



458 LECTURE XXXIV. 

In the first place, what stands highest in the order of means, 
is personal character and disposition. In order to he a truly 
eloquent or persuasive speaker, nothing is more necessary than 
to be a virtuous man. This was a favourite position among the 
ancient rhetoricians : " Non posse oratorem esse nisi virum 
bonum." To find any such connexion between virtue and one 
of the highest liberal arts, must give pleasure ; and it can, I 
think, be clearly shown, that this is not a mere topic of declama- 
tion, but that the connexion here alleged, is undoubtedly founded 
in truth and reason. 

For consider, first, whether any thing contribute mere to 
persuasion, than the opinion which we entertain of the probity 
disinterestedness, candour, and other good moral qualities of 
the person who endeavours to persuade ? These give weight and 
force to every thing which he utters ; nay, they add a beauty to 
it ; they dispose us to listen with attention and pleasure ; and 
create a secret partiality in favour of that side which he espouses. 
Whereas, if we entertain a suspicion of craft and disingenuity, 
of a corrupt, or a base mind in the speaker, his eloquence loses 
all its real effect. It may entertain and amuse ; but it is viewed 
as artifice, as trick, as the play only of speech, and, viewed in 
this light, whom can it persuade ? We even read a book with 
more pleasure, when we think favourably of its author ; but 
when we have the living speaker before our eyes, addressing us 
personally on some subject of importance, the opinion we enter- 
tain of his character must have a much more powerful effect. 

But, lest it should be said, that this relates only to the cha- 
racter of virtue, which one may maintain, without being at 
bottom a truly worthy man, I must observe further, that besides 
the weight which it adds to character, real virtue operates also, 
in other ways, to the advantage of eloquence. 

First, nothing is so favourable as virtue to the prosecution 
of honourable studies. It prompts a generous emulation to ex- 
cel ; it inures to industry ; it leaves the mind vacant and free, 
master of itself, disencumbered of those bad passions, and disen- 
gaged from those mean pursuits, which have ever been found 
the greatest enemies to true proficiency. Quintilian has touched 
this consideration very properly : " Quod si agrorum nimia cura, 
et sollicitior rei familiaris diligentia, et venandi voluptas, et dati 
spectaculis dies, multum studiis auferunt, quid putamus facturas 
cupiditatem, avaritiam, invidiam ? Nihil enim est tarn occupatum, 
tarn multiforme, tot ac tam variis affectibus concisum, atque 
laceratum, quam mala mens. Quis inter hsec, Uteris, aut ulli 



IMPROVEMENT IN ELOQUENCE. 459 

bonse arti, locus ? Non hercle magis, quam frugibua in terra 
sentibus ac rubis occupata."* 

But, besides this consideration, there is another of still higher 
importance, though I am not sure of its being attended to as 
much as it deserves ; namely, that from the fountain of real and 
genuine virtue, are drawn those sentiments which will ever be 
most powerful in affecting the hearts of others. Bad as the 
world is, nothing has so great and universal a command over 
the minds of men as virtue. No kind of language is so gene- 
rally understood, and so powerfully felt, as the native language 
of worthy and virtuous feelings. He only, therefore, who pos- 
sesses these full and strong, can speak properly, and its own 
language, to the heart. On all great subjects and occasions, 
there is a dignity, there is an energy in noble sentiments, which 
is overcoming and irresistible. They give an ardour and a 
flame to one's discourse, which seldom fails to kindle a like 
flame in those who hear ; and which, more than any other cause, 
bestows on eloquence that power for which it is famed of seiz 
ing and transporting an audience. Here art and imitation will 
not avail. An assumed character conveys nothing of this power- 
ful warmth. It is only a native and unaffected glow of feeling, 
which can transmit the emotion to others. Hence the most re 
nowned orators, such as Cicero and Demosthenes, were no less 
distinguished for some of the high virtues, as public spirit and 
zeal for their country, than for eloquence. Beyond doubt, to 
these virtues their eloquence owed much of its effect ; and those 
orations of theirs, in which there breathes most of the virtuous 
and magnanimous spirit are those which have most attracted the 
admiration of ages. 

Nothing, therefore, is more necessary for those who would 
excel in any of the higher kinds of oratory, than to cultivate 
habits of the several virtues, and to refine and improve all their 
moral feelings. Whenever these become dead, or callous, they 
may be assured, that, on every great occasion, they will speak 
with less power, and less success. The sentiments and disposi- 

* " If the management of an estate, if anxious attention to domestic economy, 
a passion for hunting, or whole days given up to public places of amusement, 
consume so much time that is due to study, how much greater waste must be 
occasioned by licentious desires, avarice, or envy ? Nothing is so much hurried 
and agitated, so contradictory to itself, or so violently torn and shattered by con- 
flicting passions, as a bad heart. Amidst the distractions which it produces, 
what room is left for the cultivation of letters, or the pursuit of any honourable 
art? No more, assuredly, than there is for the growth of corn in a field that is 
overrun with thorns and brambles." — Xll. i. 6. 



4o0 LECTDRB XXXIV. 

tions, particularly requisite for them to cultivate, are the follow- 
ing : the love of justice and order, and indignation at insolence 
and oppression ; the love of honesty and fruth, and detestation 
of fraud, meanness, and corruption ; magnanimity of spirit ; the 
love of liherty, of their country, and the public ; zeal for all great 
aDd noble designs, and reverence for all worthy and heroic cha- 
racters. A cold and sceptical turn of mind is extremely adverse 
to eloquence : and no less so, is that cavilling disposition which 
takes pleasure in depreciating what is great, and ridiculing what 
is generally admired. Such a disposition bespeaks one not 
very likely to excel in any thing ; but least of all in ora- 
tory. A true orator should be a person of generous senti- 
ments, of warm feelings, and of a mind turned towards the admi- 
ration of all those great and high objects, which mankind are 
naturally formed to admire. Joined with the manly virtues, he 
should, at the same time, possess strong and tender sensibility to 
all the injuries, distresses, and sorrows of his fellow-creatures ; 
a heart that can easily relent ; that can readily enter into the cir- 
cumstances of others, and can make their case his own. A proper 
mixture of courage, and of modesty, must always be studied by 
every public speaker. Modesty is essential ; it is always, and 
justly, supposed to be a concomitant of merit ; and every appear- 
ance of it is winning and prepossessing. But modesty ought 
not to run into excessive timidity. Every public speaker 
should be able to rest somewhat on himself; and to assume 
that air, not of self-complacency, but of firmness, which be- 
speaks a consciousness of his being thoroughly persuaded 
of the truth, or justice, of what he delivers ; a circumstance 
of no small consequence for making impression on those who 
hear. 

Next to moral qualifications, what, in the second place, is 
most necessary to an orator, is a fund of knowledge. Much is 
this inculcated by Cicero and Quintilian : * Quod omnibus 
disciplinis et artibus debet esse instructus orator." By which 
they mean, that he ought to have, what we call, a liberal educa- 
tion ; and to be formed by a regular study of philosophy, and 
the polite arts. We must never forget that, 

Sci ibendi recte, sapere est, et principium et fons. 

Good sense and knowledge are the foundation of all good 
speaking. There is no art that can teach one to be eloquent, 
in any sphere, -without a sufficient acquaintance with what be- 
longs to that sphere ; or if there were an art that made sue!* 



IMPROVEMENT IN ELOQUENCE. 401 

pretensiuus, it would be mere quackery, like the pretensions of 
the sophists of old, to teach their disciples to speak for and 
against every subject ; and would be deservedly exploded by all 
wise men. Attention to style, to composition, and all the arts 
of speech, can only assist an orator in setting off, to advantage, 
the stock of materials which he possesses ; but the stock, the 
materials themselves must be brought from other quarters than 
from rhetoric. He who is to plead at the bar, must make him- 
self thoroughly master of the knowledge of the law ; of all the 
learning and experience that can be useful in his profession, for 
supporting a cause or convincing a judge. He who is to speak 
from the pulpit, must apply himself closely to the study of divi- 
nity, of practical i*eligion, of morals, of human nature ; that he 
may be rich in all the topics, both of instruction and of persua- 
sion. He who would fit himself for being a member of the su- 
preme council of the nation, or of any public assembly, must be 
thoroughly acquainted with the business that belongs to such 
assembly ; he must study the forms of court, the course of pro- 
cedure ; and must attend minutely to all the facts that may be 
the subject of question or deliberation. 

Besides the knowledge that properly belongs to his profes- 
sion, a public speaker, if ever he expects to be eminent, must 
make himself acquainted, as far as his necessary occupations 
allow, with the general circle of polite literature. The study of 
poetry may be useful to him, on many occasions, for embellish- 
ing his style, for suggesting lively images, or agreeable allusions. 
The study of history may be still more useful to him ; as the 
knowledge of facts, of eminent characters, and of the course of 
human affairs, finds place on many occasions.* There are few 
great occasions of public speaking, in which one may not derive 
assistance from cultivated taste, and extensive knowledge ; they 
will often yield him materials for proper ornament ; sometimes, 
for argument and real use. A deficiency of knowledge, even in 
subjects that belong not directly to his own profession, will ex- 
pose him to many disadvantages, and give better qualified rivals 
a great superiority over him. 

Allow me to recommend, in the third place, not only the at- 
tainment of useful knowledge, but a habit of application and in-, 

* '• Imprimis vero abundare debet orator exemplorum copia, cum vetemm, 
tnm etiam novorum, adeo ut non ea modo, qua? conscripta suiat historiis, aut 
eermonibus velut per maims tradita, quaeque quotidie aguntur, debeat nosse ; 
verum ne ea quidem, qua? a clarioribus poetis sunt ficta, nesjligere."— Quint 
lib. xii. cap. 4. 



46!a LECTURE XXXIV 

dustry. Without this, it is impossible to excel in any thing. We 
must not imagine, that it is by a sort of mushroom growth, that 
one can rise to be a distinguished pleader, or preacher, or speaker 
in any assembly. It is not by starts of application, or by a few 
years' preparation of study afterwards discontinued, that eminence 
can be attained. No ; it can be attained only by means of re- 
gular industry, grown up into a habit, and ready to be exerted 
on every occasion that calls for industry. This is the fixed law 
of our nature ; and he must have a very high opinion of his 
own genius indeed, that can believe himself an exception to it. 
A very wise law of our nature it is ; for industry is, in truth, the 
great condimentum, the seasoning of every pleasure, without 
which life is doomed to languish. Nothing is so great an enemy 
both to honourable attainments, and to the real, to the brisk, and 
spirited enjoyment of life, as that relaxed state of mind which 
arises from indolence and dissipation. One that is destined to 
excel in any art, especially in the arts of speaking and writing, 
will be known by this more than by any other mark whatever, an 
enthusiasm for that art ; an enthusiasm which, firing his mind 
with the object he has in view, will dispose him to relish every 
labour which the means require. It was this that characterised 
the great men of antiquity ; it is this which must distinguish the 
moderns who would tread in their steps. This honourable 
enthusiasm, it is highly necessary for such as are studying 
oratory to cultivate. If youth wants it, manhood will flag mise- 
rably. 

In the fourth place, attention to the best models will con- 
tribute greatly towards improvement. Every one who speaks 
or writes should, indeed, endeavour to have somewhat that is 
his own, that is peculiar to himself, and that characterises his 
composition and style. Slavish imitation depresses genius, or 
rather betrays the want of it. But withal, there is no genius so 
original, but may be profited and assisted by the aid of proper 
examples, in style, composition, and delivery. They always 
open some new ideas ; they serve to enlarge and correct our 
own. They quicken the current of thought, and excite emu- 
lation. 

Much, indeed, will depend upon the right choice of models 
which we purpose to imitate ; and, supposing them rightly 
chosen, a further care is requisite, of not being seduced by a 
blind universal admiration. For, " decipit exemplar, vitiis 
imitabile." Even in the most finished models we can select, it 
must not be forgotten, that there are always some things hn~ 



IMPROVEMENT IN ELOQUENCE. 463 

proper for imitation. We should study to acquire a just con- 
ception of the peculiar characteristic beauties of any writer, or 
public speaker, and imitate these only. One ought never to 
attach himself too closely to any single model ; for he who does 
so, is almost sure of being seduced into a faulty and affected 
imitation. His business should be, to draw from several the 
proper ideas of perfection. Living examples of public speaking, 
in any kind, it will not be expected that I should here point 
out. As to the writers, ancient and modern, from whom benefit 
may be derived in forming composition and style, I have spoken 
so much of them in former lectures, that it is needless to repeat 
what I have said of their virtues and defects. I own, it is to 
be regretted, that the English language, in which there is much 
good writing, furnishes us, however, with but very few recorded 
examples of eloquent public speaking. Among the French 
there are more. Saurin, Bourdaloue, Flechier, Massillon, parti- 
cularly the last, are eminent for the eloquence of the pulpit. But 
the most nervous and sublime of all their orators is Bossuet, 
the famous bishop of Meaux ; in whose Oraisons Fuvhbres, there 
is a very high spirit of oratory. * Some of Fontenelle's 
Harangues to the French Academy, are elegant and agreeable. 
And at the bar, the printed pleadings of Cochin and d'Aguesseau, 
are highly extolled by the late French critics. 

There is one observation which it is of importance to make, 
concerning imitation of the style of any favourite author, when 
we could carry his style into public speaking. We must attend 
to a very material distinction between written and spoken lan- 
guage. These are, in truth, two different manners of communi- 
ting ideas. A book that is to be read requires one sort of style ; 
a man that is to speak must use another. In books we look for 
correctness, precision, all redundancies pruned, all repetitions 
avoided, language completely polished. Speaking admits a more 
easy copious style, and less fettered by rule ; repetitions may 
often be necessary, parentheses may sometimes be graceful ; the 
same thought must often be placed in different views ; as the 
hearers can catch it only from the mouth of the speaker, and 

• "The criticism which M. Crevier, author of Rhetorique Francois, passes 
upon these writers whom I have above named, is, " Bossuet est grand, mais 
inegal : Flechier est plus 6gal, mais moins eleve, et souvent trop fleuii : Bourda- 
loue est solide et judicie.ux, mais il neglige les graces legeres : Massillon est plus 
riche en images, mais moins fort en raisonnement. Je souhaite done, que l'ora- 
teor ne se contente dans l'imitation d'un seul de ces modeles, mais qu'il tache de 
reunir en lui toutes leurs differentes vertus."— Vol ii. chap, derniere. 



464 LECTURE XXXIV. 

have not the advantage, as in reading a book, of turning back 
again, and of dwelling on what they do not fully comprehend. 
Hence the style of many good authors would appear stiff, af- 
fected, and even obscure, if, by too close an imitation, we should 
transfer it to a popular oration. How awkward, for example, 
would lord Shaftesbury's sentences sound in the mouth of a 
public speaker? Some kinds of public discourse, it is true, 
such as that of the pulpit, where more exact preparation and 
more studied style are admitted, would bear such a manner 
better than others, which are expected to approach more to ex- 
temporaneous speaking. But still there is, in general, so much 
difference between speaking and composition designed only to 
be read, as should guard us against a close and injudicious imi- 
tation. 

Some authors there are, whose manner of writing approaches 
nearer to the style of speaking than others ; and who, therefore, 
can be imitated with more safety. In this class, among the 
English authors, are Dean Swift and Lord Bolingbroke. The 
dean, throughout all his writings, in the midst of much correct- 
ness, maintains the easy natural manner of an unaffected 
speaker ; and this is one of his chief excellences. Lord 
Bolingbroke's style is more splendid, and more declamatorv 
than Dean Swift's ; but still it is the style of one who speaks, 
or rather who harangues. Indeed, all his political writings (for 
it is to them only, and not to his philosophical ones, that this 
observation can be applied) carry much more the appearance of 
one declaiming with warmth, in a great assembly, than of one 
writing in a closet, in order to be read by others. They have 
all the copiousness, the fervour, the inculcating method that is 
allowable and graceful in an orator ; perhaps too much of it for 
a writer ; and it is to be regretted, as I have formerly observed, 
that the matter contained in them should have been so trivial, 
or so false ; for, from the manner and style, considerable advan- 
tage might be reaped. 

In the fifth place ; besides attention to the best models, fre- 
quent exercise, both in composing and speaking, will be admitted 
to be a necessary mean of improvement. That sort of compo- 
sition is, doubtless, most useful which relates to the profession, 
or kind of public speaking, to which persons addict themselves. 
This they should keep ever in their eye, and be gradually inuring 
themselves to it. But let me also advise them, not to allow 
themselves in negligent composition of any kind. He who has 
it for his aim to write, or to speak correctly, should, in the 



IMPROVEMENT 1 \ ELOQUENCE. 4<;.> 

most trivial kind of composition, in writing a letter, nay, even 
in common discourse, study to acquit himself with propriety. I 
do not at all mean, that he is never to write or to speak a word, 
but in elaborate and artificial language. This would form him 
to a stiffness and affectation, worse, by ten thousand degrees, 
than the greatest negligence. But it is to be observed, that 
there is, in every thing, a manner which is becoming, and has 
propriety ; and opposite to it there is a clumsy and faulty 
performance of the same thing. The becoming manner is very 
often the most light, and seemingly careless, manner ; but it 
requires taste and attention to seize the just idea of it. That 
idea, when acquired, we should keep in our eye, and form upon it 
whatever we write or say. 

Exercises of speaking have always been recommended to 
students, in order that they may prepare themselves for speaking 
in public, and on real business. The meetings, or societies, 
into which they sometimes form themselves for this purpose, are 
laudable institutions ; and under proper conduct, may serve 
many valuable purposes. They are favourable to knowledge and 
study, by giving occasion to inquiries concerning those subjects 
which are made the ground of discussion. They produce emu- 
lation ; and gradually inure those who are concerned in them, to 
somewhat that resembles a public assembly. They accustom 
them to know their own powers, and to acquire a command 
of themselves in speaking ; and what is, perhaps, the greatest 
advantage of all, they give them a facility and fluency of ex- 
pression, and assist them in procuring that copia verborum 
which can be acquired by no other means but frequent exercise 
in speaking. 

But the meetings which I have now in my eye, are to be 
understood of those academical associations, where a moderate 
number of young gentlemen, who are carrying on their studies, 
and are connected by some affinity in the future pursuits which 
they have in view, assemble privately, in order to improve one 
another, and to prepare themselves for those public exhibitions 
which may afterwards fall to their lot. As for those public and 
promiscuous societies, in which multitudes are brought together, 
who are often of low stations and occupations, who are joined 
by no common bond of union, except an absurd rage for public 
speaking, and have no other object in view, but to make a show 
of their supposed talents, they are institutions not merely of an 
useless, but of a hurtful nature. They are in great hazard of 
proving seminaries of licentiousness, petulance, faction, and 

2 H 



46G LECTURE XX XIV. 

folly. They mislead those, who, in their own callings, might 
be useful members of society, into fantastic plans of making 
a figure on subjects which divert their attention from their 
proper business, and are widely remote from their sphere in 
life. 

Even the allowable meetings into which students of oratory 
form themselves, stand in need of direction in order to render 
them useful. If their subjects of discourse be improperly 
chosen ; if they maintain extravagant or indecent topics ; if 
they indulge themselves in loose and flimsy declamation, which 
has no foundation in good sense ; or accustom themselves to 
speak pertly on all subjects without due preparation, they may 
improve one another in petulance, but in no other thing ; and 
will infallibly form themselves to a very faulty and vicious taste 
in speaking. I would, therefore, advise all who are members 
of such societies, in the first place, to attend to the choice of 
their subjects ; that they be useful and manly, either formed on 
the course of their studies, or on something that has relation 
to morals and taste, to action and life. In the second place, I 
would advise them to be temperate in the practice of speaking ; 
not to speak too often, nor cm subjects where they are ignorant 
or unripe ; but only when they have proper materials for a dis- 
course, and have digested and thought of the subject before- 
hand. In the third place, when they do speak, they should study 
always to keep good sense and persuasion in view, rather than 
an ostentation of eloquence ; and for this end, I would, in the 
fourth place, repeat the advice which I gave in a former lecture, 
that they should always choose that side of the question to 
which, in their own judgment, they are most inclined, as the 
right and the true side ; and defend it by such arguments as 
seem to them most solid. By these means they will take the 
best method of forming themselves gradually to a manly, cor- 
rect, and persuasive manner of speaking. 

It now only remains to inquire, of what use may the study 
of critical and rhetorical writers be for improving one in the 
practice of eloquence ? These are certainly not to be neglect- 
ed ; and yet, I dare not say that much is to be expected from 
them. For professed writers on public speaking, we must look 
chiefly among the ancients. In modern times, for reasons which 
were before given, popular eloquence, as an art, has never been 
very much the object of study ; it has not the same powerful 
effects among us that it had in more democratical states ; and 
therefore has not been cultivated with the same care. Among 



IMPROVEMENT IN ELOQUENCE. 4G7 

the moderns, though there has been a great deal of good criti- 
cism on the different kinds of writing, yet much has not been 
attempted on the subject of eloquence or public discourse ; and 
what has been given us of that kind, has been drawn mostly 
from the ancients. Such a writer as Joannes Gerardus* Vossius, 
who has gathered into one heap of ponderous lumber, all the 
trifling as well as the useful things, that are to be found in the 
Greek and Roman writers, is enough to disgust one with the 
study of eloquence. Among the French, there has been more 
attempted on this subject, than among the English. The bishop 
of Cambray's writings on eloquence I before mentioned witli 
honour. Rollin, Batteux, Crevier, Gibert, and several other 
French critics, have also written on oratory : but though some 
of them may be useful, none of them are so considerable as to 
deserve particular recommendation. 

It is to the original ancient writers that we must chiefly have 
recourse ; and it is a reproach to any one, whose profession calls 
him to speak in public, to be unacquainted with them. In all 
the ancient rhetorical writers, there is, indeed, this defect, that 
they are too systematical, as I formerly showed ; they aim at 
doing too much ; at reducing rhetoric to a complete and perfect 
art, which may even supply invention with materials on every 
subject; insomuch, that one would imagine they expected to 
form an orator by rule, in as mechanical a manner as one would 
form a carpenter. Whereas, all that can, in truth, be done, is to 
give openings for assisting and enlightening taste, and for point- 
ing out to genius the course it ought to hold. 

Aristotle laid the foundation for all that was afterwards 
written on the subject. That amazing and comprehensive 
genius, which does honour to human nature, and which gave 
light into so many different sciences, has investigated the prin- 
ciples of rhetoric with great penetration. Aristotle appears to 
have been the first who took rhetoric out of the hands of the 
sophists, and introduced reasoning and good sense into the art. 
Some of the profoundest things which have been written on the 
passions and manners of men, are to be found in his Treatise on 
Rhetoric ; though in this, as in all his writings, his great 
brevity often renders him obscure. Succeeding Greek rheto- 
ricians, most of whom are now lost, improved on the founda- 
tion which Aristotle had laid. Two of them still remain, Deme- 
trius Phalereus, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus ; both write 
on (lie construction of sentences, and deserve to be perused; 
especially Dionysius, who is a very accurate and judicious critic 

2 H 2 



4G0 LECTURE XXXV. 

I need scarcely recommend the rhetorical writings of Cicero. 
Whatever, on the subject of eloquence, comes from so great an 
orator, must be worthy of attention. His most considerable 
work on this subject is that Da Oratore, in three books. None 
of Cicero's writings are more highly finished than this treatise. 
The dialogue is polite, the characters are well supported, and 
the conduct of the whole is beautiful and agreeable. It is, 
indeed, full of digressions, and his rules and observations may 
be thought sometimes too vague and general. Useful things 
however, may be learned from it ; and it is no small benefit 
to be made acquainted with Cicero's own idea of eloquence. 
The Orator ad M. Brutum, is also a considerable treatise ; and, 
in general, throughout all Cicero's rhetorical works there run 
those high and sublime ideas of eloquence, which are fitted 
both for forming a just taste, and for creating that enthusiasm 
for the art, which is of the greatest consequence for excelling 
in it. 

But of all the ancient writers on the subject of oratory, the 
most instructive, and most useful, is Quintilian. I know few 
books which abound more with good sense, and discover a 
greater degree of just and accurate taste, than Quintilian's Insti- 
tutions. Almost all the principles of good criticism are to be 
found in them. He has digested into excellent order all the 
ancient ideas concerning rhetoric, and is, at the same time, himself 
an eloquent writer. Though some parts of his work contain too 
much of the technical and artificial system then in vogue, and for 
that reason may be thought dry and tedious, yet I would not ad- 
vise the omitting to read any part of his Institutions. To plea- 
ders at the bar, even these technical parts may prove of some 
use. Seldom has any person, of more sound and distinct judg- 
ment than Quintilian, applied himself to the study of the art of 
oratory. 



LECTURE XXXV. 

COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE ANCIENTS AND THE 
MODERNS— HISTORICAL WRITING. 

I HAVE now finished that part of the course which re- 
spected oratory or public speaking, and which, as far as the 
bubject allowed, I have endeavoured to form into some sort of 



ANCIENTS AHiD MODERNS COMPARED. 409 

system. It remains, that I enter on the consideration of the 
most distinguished kinds of composition both in prose and verse, 
and point out the principles of criticism relating to them. This 
part of the work might easily be drawn out to a great length ; 
but I am sensible, that critical discussions, when they are pur- 
sued too far, become both trifling and tedious. I shall study, 
therefore, to avoid unnecessary prolixity ; and hope, at the same 
time, to omit nothing that is very material under the several 
heads. 

I shall follow the same method here which I have all along 
pursued, and without which these lectures could not be entitled 
to any attention ; that is, I shall freely deliver my own opinion 
on every subject ; regarding authority no farther, than as it ap- 
pears to me founded on good sense and reason. In former lec- 
tures, as I have often quoted several of the ancient classics for 
their beauties, so I have also, sometimes, pointed out their de- 
fects. Hereafter, I shall have occasion to do the same, when 
treating of their writings under more general heads. It may be 
fit, therefore, that, before I proceed farther, I make some observa- 
tions on the comparative merit of the ancients and the moderns ; 
in order that we may be able to ascertain rationally, upon what 
foundation that deference rests, which has so generally been 
paid to the ancients. These observations are the more ne- 
cessary, as this subject has given rise to no small contro- 
versy in the republic of letters : and they may, with pro- 
priety, be made now, as they will serve to throw light on some 
things I have afterwards to deliver, concerning different kinds of 
composition. 

It is a remarkable phenomenon, and one which has often 
employed the speculations of curious men, that writers and ar- 
tists, most distinguished for their parts and genius, have gener- 
ally appeared in considerable numbers at a time. Some ages 
have been remarkably barren in them ; while at other periods, 
nature seems to have exerted herself with a more than ordinary 
eflbrt, and to have poured them forth with a profuse fertility. 
Various reasons have been assigned for this. Some of the moral 
causes lie obvious ; such as favourable circumstances of govern- 
ment and of manners ; encouragement from great men ; emula- 
tion excited among the men of genius. But as these have been 
thought inadequate to the whole effect, physical causes have been 
also assigned : and the Abbe du Bos, in his Reflections on 
Poetry and Painting, has collected a great many observations 
on the influence which the air, the climate, and other such 



470 LECTURE XXXV. 

natural causes, may be supposed to have upon genius. But 
whatever the causes be, the fact is certain, that there have been 
certain periods or ages of the world much more distinguished 
than others, for the extraordinary productions of genius. 

Learned men have marked out four of these happy ages. 
The first is the Grecian age, which commenced near the time of 
the Peloponnesian war, and extended till the time of Alexander 
the Great ; within which period, we have Herodotus, Thucydides, 
Xenophon, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, iEschines, 
Lysias, Isocrates, Pindar, iEschylus, Euripides, Sophocles, Ari- 
stophanes, Menander, Anacreon, Theocritus, Lysippus, Apelles, 
Phidias, Praxiteles. The second is the Roman age, included 
nearly within the days of Julius Coesar and Augustus : afford- 
ing us Catullus, Lucretius, Terence, Virgil, Horace, Tibullus, 
Propertius, Ovid, Phaedrus, Caesar, Cicero, Livy, Sallust, Varro, 
and Vitruvius. The third age is, that of the restoration of learn- 
ing, under the Popes Julius II. and Leo. X. ; when flourished 
Ariosto, Tasso, Sannazarius, Vida, Machiavel, Guicciardini, 
Davila, Erasmus, Paul Jovius, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian. 
The fourth, comprehends the age of Louis X.TV, and Queen 
Anne, when flourished in France, Corneille, Racine, De Retz, 
Moliere, Boileau, Fontaine, Baptiste, Rousseau, Bossuet, Fenelon, 
Bourdaloue, Pascall, Malebranche, Massillon, Bruyere, Bayle, 
Fontenelle, Vertot ; and in England, Dryden, Pope, Addison, 
Prior, Swift, Parnell, Arbuthnot, Congreve, Otway, Young, 
Rowe, Atterbury, Shaftesbury, Bolingbroke, Tillotson, Temple, 
Boyle, Locke, Newton, Clarke. 

When we speak comparatively of the ancients and the 
moderns, we generally mean by the ancients, such as lived in 
the two first of these periods, including also one or two who 
lived more early, as Homer in particular ; and by the moderns, 
those who flourished in the two last of these ages, including 
also the eminent writers down to our own times. Any com- 
parison between these two classes of writers must necessarily 
be vague and loose, as they comprehend so many, and of such 
different kinds and degrees of genius. But the comparison is 
generally made to turn, by those who are fond of making it, 
upon two or three of the most distinguished in each class. With 
much heat it was agitated in France, between Boileau and Ma- 
dame Dacier, on the one hand, for the ancients, and Perault and 
La Motte, on the other, for the moderns ; and it was carried to 
extremes on both sides. To this day, among men of taste and 
fetters, we find a leaning to one or other si4e. A few reflec- 



ANCIENTS AND MODERNS COMPARED. 471 

tions may throw light upon the subject, and enable us to 
discern upon what grounds we are to rest our judgment in this 
controversy. 

If any one, at this day, in the eighteenth century, takes upon 
him to decry the ancient classics ; if he pretends to have dis- 
covered that Homer and Virgil are poets of inconsiderable merit, 
and that Demosthenes and Cicero are not great orators, we may 
boldly venture to tell such a man, that he is come too late 
with his discovery. The reputation of such writers is established 
upon a foundation too solid, to be now shaken by any argu- 
ments whatever ; for it is established upon the almost universal 
taste of mankind, proved and tried throughout the succession of 
so many ages. Imperfections in their works he may indeed 
point out ; passages that are faulty he may show ; for where 
is the human work that is perfect ? But, if he attempts to dis- 
credit their works in general, or to prove that the reputation 
which they have gained is, on the whole, unjust, there is an argu- 
ment against him, which is equal to full demonstration. He 
must be in the wrong ; for human nature is against him. In 
matters of taste, such as poetry and oratory, fa whom does the 
appeal lie ? where is the standard ? and where the authority of 
the last decision ? where is it to be looked for, but, as I formerly 
showed, in those feelings and sentiments that are found, on 
the most extensive examination, to be the common sentiments 
and feelings of men ? These have been fully consulted on this 
head. The public, the unprejudiced public, has been tried and ap- 
pealed to for many centuries, and throughout almost all civilized 
nations. It has pronounced its verdict ; it has given its sanction to 
these writers ; and from this tribunal there lies no farther appeal. 

In matters of mere reasoning, the world may be long in an 
error ; and may be convinced of the error by stronger reason- 
ings, when produced. Positions that depend upon science, 
upon knowledge, and matters of fact, may be overturned ac- 
cording as science and knowledge are enlarged, and new mat- 
ters of fact are brought to light. For this reason a system of 
philosophy receives no sufficient sanction from its antiquity, or 
long currency. The world, as it grows older, may be justly 
expected to become, if not wiser, at least more knowing ; and 
supposing it doubtful whether Aristotle or Newton were the 
greater genius, yet Newton's philosophy may prevail over 
Aristotle's by means of later discoveries, to which Aristotle was 
a stranger. But nothing of this kind holds as to matters of 
taste ; which depend not on the progress of knowledge and 



47 2 LECTURE XXXV. 

science, but upon sentiment and feeling. It is in vain to think 
of undeceiving mankind with respect to errors committed here, 
as in philosophy. For the universal feeling of mankind is the 
natural feeling ; and because it is the natural, it is, for that 
reason, the right feeling. The reputation of the Iliad and the 
^Eneid must therefore stand upon sure ground, because it has 
stood so long ; though that of the Aristotelian or Platonic phi- 
losophy, every one is at liberty to call in question. 

It is in vain also to allege, that the reputation of the ancient 
poets, and orators, is owing to authority, to pedantry, and to 
the prejudices of education, transmitted from age to age. These, 
it is true, are the authors put into our hands at schools and 
colleges, and by that means we have now an early prepossession 
in their favour ; but how came they to gain the possession of 
colleges and schools ? Plainly, by the high fame which these 
authors had among their own contemporaries. For the Greek 
and Latin were not always dead languages. There was a time 
when Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, were viewed in the same 
light as we now view Dryden, Pope, and Addison. It is not 
to commentators and universities that the classics are indebted 
for their fame. They became classics and school-books, in 
consequence of the high admiration which was paid them by 
the best judges in their own country and nation. As early 
as the clays of Juvenal, who wrote under the reign of Domitian, 
we find Virgil and Horace become the standard books in the 
education of youth. 

Quot stabant pueri, cum totus decolor esset 

Flaccus, et hsereret nigro fuligo Maroni.*— Sat. vii. 226. 

From this general principle, then, of the reputation of the 
great ancient classics being so early, so lasting, so extensive, 
among all the most polished nations, we may justly and boldly 
infer that their reputation cannot be wholly unjust, but must 
have a solid foundation in the merit of their writings. 

Let us guard, however, against a blind and implicit venera- 
tion for the ancients, in every thing. I have opened the general 
principle which must go far in instituting a fair comparison 
between them and the moderns. Whatever superiority the 
ancients may have had in point of genius, yet in all arts, where 
the natural progress of knowledge has had room to produce any 

* " Then thou art bound to smell, on either hand, 
As many stinking lamps, as school-boys stand, 
When Horace could not read in his own sully'u book, 
And Virgil's sacred page was all besmeai'd with smoke."— DRYDiN. 



ANCIENTS AND MODERNS COMPARED. 473 

considerable effects, the moderns cannot but have some advan- 
tage. The world may, in certain respects, be considered as a 
person, who must needs gain somewhat by advancing in years. 
Its improvements have not, I confess, been always in proportioii 
to the centuries that have passed over it ; for, during the course 
of some ages, it has sunk as into a total lethargy. Yet, when 
roused from that lethargy, it has generally been able to avail 
itself, more or less, of former discoveries. At intervals, there 
arose some happy genius, who could both improve on what had 
gone before, and invent something new. With the advantage of 
a proper stock of materials, an inferior genius can make greater 
progress, than a much superior one, to whom these materials 
are wanting. 

Hence, in natural philosophy, astronomy, chemistry, and 
other sciences that depend on an extensive knowledge and ob- 
servation of facts, modern philosophers have an unquestionable 
superiority over the ancient. I am inclined also to think, that 
in matters of pure reasoning, there is more precision among the 
moderns, than in some instances there was among the ancients j 
owing perhaps to a more extensive literary intercourse, which 
has improved and sharpened the faculties of men. In some 
studies too, that relate to taste and fine writing, which is our 
object, the progress of society must, in equity, be admitted to 
have given us some advantages. For instance, in history, there 
is certainly more political knowledge in several European na- 
tions at present than there was in ancient Greece and Rome. 
We are better acquainted with the nature of government, be- 
cause we have seen it under a greater variety of forms and revo- 
lutions. The world is more laid open than it was in former 
times ; commerce is greatly enlarged ; more countries are civi- 
lized ; posts are every where established ; intercourse is become 
more easy ; and the knowledge of facts, by consequence, more 
attainable. All these are great advantages to historians ; of 
which, in some measure, as I shall afterwards show, they have 
availed themselves. In the more complex kinds of poetry, like- 
wise, we may have gained somewhat, perhaps, in point of regu- 
larity and accuracy. In dramatic performances, having the 
advantage of the ancient models, we may be allowed to have 
made some improvements in the variety of the characters, the 
conduct of the plot, attentions to probability, and to decorums. 

These seem to me the chief points of superiority we can 
plead above the ancients. Neither do they extend as far, as 
might be imagined at first view. For if the strength of genius 



474 LECTURE XXXV. 

be on one side, it will go far, in works of taste at least, to 
counterbalance all the artificial improvements which can be 
made by greater knowledge and correctness. To return to our 
comparison of the age of the world with that of a man ; it may 
be said, not altogether without reason, that if the advancing age 
of the world bring along with it more science and more refine- 
ment, there belong, however, to its earlier periods, more vigour, 
more fire, more enthusiasm of genius. This appears indeed to 
form the characteristical difference between the ancient poets, 
orators, and historians, compared with the modern. Among 
the ancients, we find higher conceptions, greater simplicity, 
more original fancy. Among the moderns, sometimes more art 
and correctness, but feebler exertions of genius. But though 
this be in general a mark of distinction between the ancients 
and moderns, yet, like all general observations, it must be 
understood with some exceptions ; for, in point of poetical fire 
and* original genius, Milton and Shakspeare are inferior to no 
poets in any age. 

It is proper to observe, that there were some circumstances 
in ancient times very favourable to those uncommon efforts of 
genius which were then exerted. Learning was a much more 
rare and singular attainment in the earlier ages, than it is at 
present. It was not to schools and universities that the persons 
applied, who sought to distinguish themselves. They had not 
this easy resource. They travelled for their improvement into 
distant countries, to Egypt, and to the East. They inquired 
after all the monuments of learning there. They conversed with 
priests, philosophers, poets, with all who had acquired any dis- 
tinguished fame. They returned to their own country full of 
the discoveries which they had made, and fired by the new and 
uncommon objects which they had seen. Their knowledge and 
improvements cost them more labour, raised in them more en- 
thusiasm, were attended with higher rewards and honours, than 
in modern days. Fewer had the means and opportunities of 
distinguishing themselves ; but such as did distinguish them- 
selves, were sure of acquiring that fame, and even veneration, 
which is, of all rewards, the greatest incentive to genius. 
Herodotus read his history to all Greece assembled at the 
Olympic games, and was publicly crowned. In the Pelopon- 
nesian war, when the Athenian army was defeated in Sicily, 
and the prisoners were ordered to be put to death, such of 
them as could repeat any verses of Euripides were saved, from 
honour to that poet, who was a citizen of Athens. These were 



ANCIENTS AND MODERNS COMPARED. 475 

testimonies of public regard, far beyond what modern manners 
confer upon genius. 

In our times, good writing is considered as an attainment, 
neither so difficult, nor so high and meritorious. 

Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim.* 

We write much more supinely, and at our ease, than the 
ancients. To excel, is become a much less considerable object. 
Less effort, less exertion is required, because we have many 
more assistances than they. Printing has rendered all books 
common, and easy to be had. Education for any of the learned 
professions can be carried on without much trouble. Hence a 
mediocrity of genius is spread over all. But to rise beyond that, 
and to overtop the crowd, is given to hw. The multitude of 
assistances which we have for all kinds of composition, in the 
opinion of Sir William Temple, a very competent judge, rather 
depresses than favours the exertions of native genius. " It is 
very possible," says that ingenious author, in his Essay on the 
Ancients and Moderns, " that men may lose rather than gain by 
these ; may lessen the force of their own genius, by forming it 
upon that of others ; may have less knowledge of their own, for 
contenting themselves with that of those before them. So a 
man that only translates, shall never be a poet ; so people that 
trust to others' charity, rather than their own industry, will be 
always poor. Who can tell," he adds, " whether learning may 
not even weaken invention, in a man that has great advantages 
from nature ? Whether the weight and number of so many 
other men's thoughts and notions may not suppress his own ; as 
heaping on wood sometimes suppresses a little spark, that 
would otherwise have grown into a flame ? The strength of 
mind, as well as of body, grows more from the warmth of exer- 
cise, than of clothes ; nay, too much of this foreign heat, rather 
makes men faint, and their constitutions weaker than they 
would be without them." 

From whatever cause it happens, so it is, that among some 
of the ancient writers, we must look for the highest models in 
most of the kinds of elegant composition. For accurate thinking 
and enlarged ideas, in several parts of philosophy, to the 
moderns we ought chiefly to have recourse. Of correct and 
finished writing in some works of taste, they may afford useful 
patterns ; but for all that belongs to original genius, to spirited, 

* " Now every desperate blockhead dares to write, 

Verse is the trade of every living wight."— Franc js, 



476 LECTURE XXXV. 

masterly, and high execution, our best and most happy ideas 
are, generally speaking, drawn from the ancients. In epic 
poetry, for instance, Homer and Virgil, to this day, stand not 
within many degrees of any rival. Orators such as Cicero and 
Demosthenes, we have none. In history, notwithstanding some 
defects, which I am afterwards to mention in the ancient histori- 
cal plans, it may be safely asserted, that we have no such his- 
torical narration, so elegant, so picturesque, so animated, and 
interesting, as that of Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Livy, 
Tacitus, and Sallust. Although the conduct of the drama may 
be admitted to have received some improvements, yet for poetry 
and sentiment we have nothing to equal Sophocles and Euri- 
pides ; nor any dialogue in comedy, that comes up to the cor- 
rect, graceful, and elegant simplicity of Terence. We have no 
such love elegies as those of Tibullus ; no such pastorals as 
some of Theocritus's : and for lyric poetry, Horace stands quite 
unrivalled. The name of Horace cannot be mentioned without a 
particular encomium. That curiosafelicitas, which Petronius has 
remarked in his expression ; the sweetness, elegance, and spirit 
of many of his odes, the thorough knowledge of the world, the 
excellent sentiments, and natural easy manner which distinguish 
his satires and epistles, all contribute to render him one of those 
very few authors whom one never tires of reading ; and from 
whom alone, were every other monument destroyed, we should 
be led to form a very high idea of the taste and genius of the 
Augustan age. 

To all such then as wish to form their taste, and nourish 
their genius, let me warmly recommend the assiduous study of 
the ancient classics, both Greek and Roman. 

Noctuma versate manu, versate diurna.* 

Without a considerable acquaintance with them, no man can be 
reckoned a polite scholar ; and he will want many assistances 
for writing and speaking well, which the knowledge of such 
authors would afford him. Any one has great reason to suspect 
his own taste, who receives little or no pleasure from the perusal 
of writings, which so many ages and nations have consented in 
holding up as objects of admiration. And I am persuaded, it 
will be found, that in proportion as the ancients are generally 
studied and admired, or are unknown and disregarded in any 
country, good taste and good composition will flourish 01 d6- 

• "Read them by day, and study them by night."— Frasoi&. 



ANCIENTS AND MODERNS COMPARED. 477 

cline. They are commonly none but the ignorant or superficial 
who undervalue them. 

At the same time, a just and high regard for the prime 
writers of antiquity is to be always distinguished, from that con- 
tempt of every thing which is modern, and that blind veneration 
for all that has been written in Greek or Latin, which belongs 
only to pedants. Among the Greek and Roman authors, some 
assuredly deserve much higher regard than others ; nay, some 
are of no great value. Even the best of them lie open occa- 
sionally to just censure : for to no human performance is it 
given, to be absolutely perfect. We may, we ought therefore to 
read them with a distinguishing eye, so as to propose for imita- 
tion their beauties only ; and it is perfectly consistent with just 
and candid criticism, to find fault with parts, while, at the same 
time, it admires the whole. 

After these reflections on the ancients and moderns, I pro- 
ceed to a critical examination of the most distinguished kinds of 
composition, and the characters of those writers who have ex- 
celled in them, whether modern or ancient. 

The most general division of the different kinds of composi- 
tion is, into those written in prose, and those written in verse ; 
which certainly require to be separately considered, because 
subject to separate laws. I begin, as is most natural, with 
writings in prose. Of orations, or public discourses of all kinds, 
I have already treated fully. The remaining species of prose 
compositions, which assume any such regular form, as to fall 
under the cognizance of criticism, seem to be chiefly these : his- 
torical writing, philosophical writing, epistolary writing, and 
fictitious history. Historical composition shall be first con- 
sidered ; and, as it is an object of dignity, I propose to treat of 
it at some length. 

As it is the office of an orator to persuade, it is that of an 
historian to record truth for the instruction of mankind. This 
is the proper object and end of history, from which may be 
deduced many of the laws relating to it ; and if this object were 
always kept in view, it would prevent many of the errors into 
which persons are apt to fall, concerning this species of compo- 
sition. As the primary end of history is to record truth, impar- 
tiality, fidelity, and accuracy, are the fundamental qualities of an 
historian. He must neither be a panegyrist nor a satirist. He 
must not enter into faction, nor give scope to affection: but, 
contemplating vast events and characters with a cool and dis- 



478 LECTURE XXXV. 

passionate eye, must present to his readers a faithful copy of 
human nature. 

At the same time, it is not every record of facts, however 
true, that is entitled to the name of history ; but such a record 
as enables us to apply the transactions of former ages for our 
own instruction. The facts ought to be momentous and impor- 
tant ; represented in connection with their causes ; traced to 
their effects ; and unfolded in clear and distinct order. For 
wisdom is the great end of history. It is designed to supply 
the want of experience. Though it enforce not its instructions 
with the same authority, yet it furnishes us with a greater va- 
riety of instructions, than it is possible for experience to afford 
in the course of the longest life. Its object is, to enlarge our 
views of the human character, and to give full exercise to our 
judgment on human affairs. It must not therefore be a tale cal- 
culated to please only, and addressed to the fancy. Gravity 
and dignity are essential characteristics of history ; no light or- 
naments are to be employed, no flippancy of style, no quaintness 
of wit. But the writer must sustain the character of a wise 
man, writing for the instruction of posterity ; one who has 
studied to inform himself well, who has pondered his subject 
with ewe, and addresses himself to our judgment, rather than 
to our imagination. At the same time, historical writing is by 
no means inconsistent with ornamental and spirited narration. 
It admits of much high ornament and elegance ; but the orna- 
ments must be always consistent with dignity; they should not 
appear to be sought after, but to rise naturally from a mind 
animated by the events which it records. 

Historical composition is understood to comprehend under 
it, annals, memoirs, lives. But these are its inferior subordinate 
species ; on which I shall hereafter make some reflections, when 
I shall have first considered what belongs to a regular and 
legitimate work of history. Such a work is chiefly of two 
kinds : either the entire history of some state or kingdom, 
through its different revolutions, such as Livy's Roman His- 
tory ; or the history of some one great event, or some portion or 
period of time which may be considered as making a whole by 
itself ; such as, Thucydides's History of the Peloponnesian War, 
Davila's History of the Civil Wars of France, or Clarendon's of 
those of England. 

In the conduct and management of his subject, the first atten- 
tion requisite in an historian, is to give it as much unity as pos- 



HISTORICAL WRIT1JNG. 471) 

sible ; that is, his history should not consist of separate uncon- 
nected parts merely, but should be bound together by some 
connecting principle, which shall make the impression on the 
mind of something that is one, whole and entire. It is incon- 
ceivable how great an effect this, when happily executed, has 
upon a reader, and it is surprising that some able writers of 
history have not attended to it more. Whether pleasure, or 
instruction be the end sought by the study of history, either of 
them is enjoyed to much greater advantage, when the mind has 
always before it the progress of some one great plan or system 
of actions ; when there is some point or centre, to which we can 
refer the various facts related by the historian. 

In general histories, which record the affairs of a whole na- 
tion or empire throughout several ages, this unity, I confess, must 
be more imperfect. Yet even there, some degree of it can be 
preserved by a skilful writer. For though the whole, taken 
together, be very complex, yet the great constituent parts of it 
form so many subordinate wholes, when taken by themselves : 
each of which can be treated both as complete within itself, and 
as connected with what goes before and follows. In the his- 
tory of a monarchy, for instance, every reign should have its 
own unity ; a beginning, a middle, and an end, to the system of 
affairs ; while, at the same time, we are taught to discern how 
that system of affairs rose from the preceding, and how it is in- 
serted into what follows. We should be able to trace all the 
secret links of the chain, which binds together remote, and seem- 
ingly unconnected, events. In some kingdoms of Europe it was 
the plan of many successive princes to reduce the power of their 
nobles ; and during several reigns, most of the leading actions 
had a reference to this end. In other states, the rising power 
of the commons influenced for a tract of time the course and 
connection of public affairs. Among the Romans, the leading 
principle was a gradual extension of conquest, and the attain- 
ment of universal empire. The continual increase of their 
power, advancing towards this end from small beginnings, and 
by a sort of regular progressive plan, furnished to Livy a happy 
subject for historical unity, in the midst of a great variety of 
transactions. 

Of all the ancient general historians, the one who had the 
most exact idea of this quality of historical composition, though, 
in other respects, not an elegant writer, is Polybius. This. ap- 
pears from the account he gives of his own plan in the begin- 
ning of his third book ; observing that the subject of which hfi 



480 



LECTURE XXXV. 






had undertaken to write, is, throughout the whole of it, one 
action, one great spectacle; how, and by what causes, all the parts 
of the habitable world became subject to the Roman empire. 
" This action," says he, " is distinct in its beginning, deter- 
mined in its duration, and clear in its final accomplishment ; 
therefore, I think it of use, to give a general view before- 
hand, of the chief constituent parts which make up this whole." 
In another place, he congratulates himself on his good for- 
tune, in having a subject for history, which allowed such va- 
riety of parts to be united under one view ; remarking, that 
before this period, the affairs of the world were scattered, 
and without connection ; whereas, in the times of which he 
writes, all the great transactions of the world tended and 
verged to one point, and were capable of being considered 
as parts of one system. Whereupon he adds several very 
judicious observations, concerning the usefulness of writing his- 
tory upon such a comprehensive and connected plan ; comparing 
the imperfect degree of knowledge, which is afforded by parti- 
cular facts without general views, to the imperfect idea which 
one would entertain of an animal, who had beheld its separate 
parts only, without having ever seen its entire form and 
structure.* 

Such as write the history of some particular great transac- 
tion, as confine themselves to one era, or one portion of the his- 
tory of a nation, have so great advantages for preserving histori- 
cal unity, that they are inexcusable if they fail in it. Sallust's 
Histories of the Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars, Xenophon's 
Cyropsedia, and his Retreat of the Ten Thousand, are instances 
of particular histories, where the unity of historical object is 
perfectly well maintained. Thucydides, otherwise a writer of 
great strength and dignity, has failed much, in this article, in his 
history of the Peloponnesian war. No one great object is pro- 



• KaOiKcv ph yap I'/ioiyt Soxouo-iv 0/ jrijrtia'/JiiKii iia Trji x*Ta pepo; ierrtpta; fjurplwf 
(rvvS'i'MrQou to. i'ha, ?rapair\-qrt6v ti jtoV^eiv, w; av i'l Tint; l/ivj/ii^ou xai xaKou awfiaro; yi- 
yovoVo? dieppift/ttva ra p-tpri Oidjftivot, mfiltpav SxavSi avT&wzat yiyvtcQai t?s itipytiag ai/rou 
Toy £<£ou xai xaMoniff. ei yap ti; aCrixa fia\a avvOr);, xa) teA.eiov audi; aircpyaaapsvof to 
?aio> tS> te e"t$i xa) T>j T>Jf ■tyvyyiq txnrpiirtia, xavara waXw otiSeixh'oi to"; ai/TOij Exeivoif' 
tayiws a» tiipai TraVraf airous 0/J.oKoyfiasr, 810V/ xa) A,iav jroXu Ti rrj; aXi]0eiaf oWeXeittovto 
irpoaUtv, xa) irapa7rX4)aioi to"; neipuiTTOuait i}<rai<, tmoiav /th yap \a@u> dVb ftepovs-rwv i'Xit" 
8ui/«toV htjo-t^ijv 8e xai yvw/ir,t arptxSi e'^eiv aSiivaTaiv. 810 uramXws Rpayi ti vo//io-teo» 
cv/tpaXXtpQai rty xara. pepo; foropiav nplg tjjii o'Xaiv l/firitpta]/ xa) iriFTiv, ex ftei/TOiyi 
tijf avavTuiv &po( d'KKriKa <ri//*7rXox)jf xa) napaOfa-iw;, i'n 8" o/iOiorijTOf na) Sia^iopa;, /iovwc 
a v rig e^ixoito xa) 8tiw|0eiij xaTnniaag, «'//« xa) to yj^Btfim xai to riprrtlv, ix r'ii Vtc-- 
(inti XaBiJv, — Polyb. Histor. i. 5. 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 401 

perly pursued, and kept in view ; but his narration is cut down 
into small pieces ; his history is divided by summers and win- 
ters, and we are every now and then leaving transactions un- 
finished, and are hurried from place to place, from Athens to 
Sicily, from thence to Peloponnesus, to Corcyra, to Mitylene, 
that we may be told of what is going on in all these places. We 
have a great many disjointed parts, and scattered limbs, which 
with difficulty we collect into one body ; and through this 
faulty distribution and management of his subject, that ju- 
dicious historian becomes more tiresome, and less agreeable 
than he would otherwise be. For these reasons he is severely 
censured by one of the best critics of antiquity, Dionysius of 
Halicarnassus.* 

The historian must not indeed neglect chronological order, 
with a view to render his narration agreeable. He must give 
a distinct account of the dates and of the coincidence of facts. 
But he is not under the necessity of breaking off always in the 
middle of transactions, in order to inform us of what was hap- 
pening elsewhere at the same time. He discovers no art, if he 
cannot form some connection among the affairs which he re- 
lates, so as to introduce them in a proper train. He will 
soon tire the reader, if he goes on recording, in strict 
chronological order, a multitude of separate transactions, 
connected by nothing else, but their happening at the same 
time. 

Though the history of Herodotus be of greater compass than 
that of Thucydides, and comprehend a much greater variety of 
dissimilar parts, he has been more fortunate in joining them to- 
gether, and digesting them into order. Hence he is a more 
pleasing writer, and gives a stronger impression of his subject ; 

• The censure which Dionysius passes upon Thucydides, is, in several ar- 
ticles, carried too far. He blames him for the choice of his subject, as not 
sufficiently splendid and agreeable, and as abounding too much in crimes and 
melancholy events, on which he observes that Thucydides loves to dwell. He 
is partial to Herodotus, whom, both for the choice and the conduct of his sub- 
ject, he prefers to the other historian. It is true that the subject of Thucydides 
wants the gaiety and splendour of that of Herodotus ; but it is not deficient in 
dignity. The Peloponnesian war was the contest between two great rival 
powers, the Athenian and LacedasmouLn states, for the empire of Greece. Hero- 
dotus loves to dwell on prosperous incidents, and retains somewhat of the amus- 
ing manner of the ancient poetical historians. But Herodotus wrote to the imagi- 
nation, Thucydides writes to the understanding. He was a grave, reflecting 
man, well acquainted with human life ; and the melancholy events and catastro- 
phes which he records, are often both the most interesting parts of history, 
and the most improving to the heart. 

The critic's observations on the faulty distribution with Thucydides make* 

2 i 



482 LECTURE XXXVI. 

though, in judgment and accuracy, much inferior to Thucydides. 
With digressions and episodes he abounds ; but when these 
have any connection with the main subject, and are inserted pro- 
fessedly as episodes, the unity of the whole is less violated by 
them, than by a broken and scattered narration of the principal 
story. Among the moderns, the President Thuanus has by at- 
tempting to make the history of his own times too comprehen- 
sive, fallen into the same error, of loading the reader with a great 
variety of unconnected facts, going on together in different parts 
of the world ; an historian otherwise of great probity, candour, 
and excellent understanding ; but through this want of unity , 
more tedious and less interesting than he would otherwise have 
been. 



LECTURE XXXVT 

HISTORICAL WRITING. 

After making some observations on the controversy 
which has been often carried on concerning the comparative 
merit of the ancients and the moderns, I entered, in the last lec- 
ture, on the consideration of Historical Writing. The general 
idea of History is, a record of truth for (he instruction of man- 
kind. Hence arise the primary qualities required in a good 
historian, impartiality, fidelity, gravity, and dignity. What I 
principally considered, was the unity which belongs to this sort 
of composition ; the nature of which I have endeavoured to 
explain. 

I proceed next to observe, that in order to fulfil the end of 
history, the author must study to trace to their springs the 
actions and events which he records. Two things are especially 
necessary for his doing this successfully : a thorough acquaint- 

of his subject, are better founded, and his preference of Herodotus, in this 

respect is not unjust. — ©ouxuSiSrjf /j.\v to!; yp6votg uxoXovOwv, 'HpiSSorof 8s tocTj irtp, oy cut 
T(S» 7rpayy.a.Twi. y/XveroH ©ouxuSiSjjj atraipri; xai Zucr7rttpaxoXou9riToc' iroXXwv yap xoto. To 
auTo Sepof xai yjijiania yiyvo/iiviM h $ta$6pois T07roif, ypntXCic T«f irpwrac nrpal-eis xara- 
Xittuiv, trepan amtTeu Turn xaru to air'a Bipoi xai yei/j.aj»a ytyMfitvwt. TrXavw/jLtOa $r„ 
xaQcmip ti'xof, xai hvexoXw; this iriXovftwoi; wapaxaXanQotj/j-sv. 2u//S£§)jxe ©ooxuSiSd [its, 
ftiav vroonrtv Xafiovri, iroXXa zjor/jvat /-UJ3JJ to fv fftu/ua" 'Hpoiorai ie, t«? iroXXaf xai oi}St> 
toixuioif iiroQetrtif irpotiXofAtvw, ci/j.^iuvov ?» eroJ/ta weaoirir.ivai. — De Praecip. Historic, p 
208. With regard to style, Dionysius gives Thucydides the just praise of energy 
aud brevity ; but censures him on many occasions, not without reason, for 
harsh and obscrre expression, deficient in smoothness and ease. 



HISTORICAL WRITING 483 

ance -with human nature, and political knowledge, or acquaint- 
ance with government. The former is necessary to account 
for the conduct of individuals, and to give just views of their 
character ; the latter to account for the revolutions of govern- 
ment, and the operation of political causes on public affairs. Both 
must occur, in order to form a completely instructive historian. 

With regard to the latter article, political knowledge, the 
ancient writers wanted some advantages which the moderns 
enjoy ; from whom, upon that account, we have a title to 
expect more accurate and precise information. The world, as 
I formerly hinted, was more shut up in ancient times, than it 
is now ; there was then less communication among neighbouring 
states ; and by consequence less knowledge of one another's 
affairs ; no intercourse by established posts, or by ambassadors 
resident at distant courts. The knowledge, and materials of 
the ancient historians, were thereby mGre limited and circum- 
scribed ; and it is to be observed too, that they wrote for their 
own countrymen only ; they had no idea of writing for the 
instruction of foreigners, whom they despised, or of the world 
in general ; and hence they- are less attentive to convey all 
that knowledge with regard to domestic policy, which we, in 
distant times, would desire to have learned from them. Per- 
haps also, though in ancient ages men were abundantly animated 
with the love of liberty, yet the full extent of the influence of 
government, and of political causes, was not then so thoroughly 
scrutinized, as it has been in modern times ; when a long ex- 
perience of all the different modes of government has rendered 
men more enlightened and intelligent, with respect to public af- 
fairs. 

To these reasons it is owing, that though the ancient his- 
torians set before us the particular facts which they relate, in a 
very distinct and beautiful manner, yet sometimes they do not 
give us a clear view of all the political causes, which affected 
the situation of affairs of which they treat. From the Greek 
historians, we are able to form but an imperfect notion of the 
strength, the wealth, and the revenues of the different Grecian 
states ; of the causes of several of those revolutions that hap- 
pened in their government ; or of their separate connections and 
interfering interests. In writing the History of the Romans, 
Livy had surely the most ample field for displaying political 
knowledge, concerning the rise of their greatness, and the ad- 
vantages or defects of their government. Yet the instruction 

2 i 2 



484 LECTURE 

in these important articles, which he affords, ia not considerable 
An elegant writer he is, and a beautiful relater of facts, if ever 
there was one ; but by no means distinguished for profoundness 
or penetration. Sallust, when writing the history of a con- 
spiracy against the government, which ought to have been 
altogether a political history, has evidently attended more to 
the elegance of narration, and the painting of characters, than 
to the unfolding of secret causes and springs. Instead of that 
complete information, which we would naturally have expected 
from him, of the state of parties in Rome, and of that particular 
conjuncture of affairs, which enabled so desperate a profligate 
as Catiline to become so formidable to government, he has given 
us little more than a general declamatory account of the luxury 
and corruption of manners in that age, compared with the sim- 
plicity of former times. 

I by no means, however, mean to censure all the ancient 
historians as defective in political information. No historians 
can be more instructive than Thucydides, Polybius, and Tacitus 
Thucydides is grave, intelligent, and judicious ; always atten- 
tive to give very exact information concerning every operation 
which he relates ; and to show the advantages or disadvantages 
of every plan that was proposed and every measure that was 
pursued. Polybius excels in comprehensive political views, in 
penetration into great systems, and in his profound and distinct 
knowledge of all military affairs. Tacitus is eminent for his 
knowledge of the human heart ; is sentimental and refined in a 
high degree : conveys much instruction with respect to political 
matters, but mor ,»ith respect to human nature. 

But when we demand from the historian profound and 
instructive views of his subject, it is not meant that he should 
be frequently interrupting the course of his history with his 
own reflections and speculations. He should give us all the 
information that is necessary for our fully understanding the 
affairs which he records. He should make us acquainted with 
the political constitution, the force, the revenues, the internal 
state of the country of which he writes ; and with its interests 
and connections in respect of neighbouring countries. He 
should place us, as on an elevated station, whence we may have an 
extensive prospect of all the causes that co-operate in bringing 
forward the events which are related. But having put into our 
hands all the proper materials for judgment, he should not be 
too prodigal of his own opinions and reasonings. When an 



HTSTOR CAL WRITING. 485 

historian is much given to dissertation, and is ready to philoso 
phise and speculate on all that he records, a suspicion naturally 
arises, that he will he in hazard of adapting his narrative of 
facts to favour some system which he has formed to himself. It 
is rather by fair and judicious narration, that history should 
instruct us, than by delivering instruction in an avowed and 
direct manner. On some occasions, when doubtful points require 
to be scrutinized, or when some great event is in agitation, con- 
cerning the causes or circumstances of which mankind have been 
much divided, the narrative may be allowed to stand still for a 
little ; the historian may appear, and may with propriety enter 
into some weighty discussion. But he must take care not to cloy 
his readers with such discussions, by repeating them too often. 

When observations are to be made concerning human 
nature in general, or the peculiarities of certain characters, if 
the historian can artfully incorporate such observations with his 
narrative, they will have a better effect than when they are 
delivered as formal detached reflections. For instance : in the 
life of Agricola, Tacitus, speaking of Domitian's treatment of 
Agricola, makes this observation : u Proprium humani ingenii 
est, odisse quern keseris."* The observation is just, and well 
applied ; but the form in which it stands, is abstract and philo- 
sophical. A thought of the same kind has a finer effect else- 
where in the same historian, when speaking of the jealousies 
which Germanicus knew to be entertained against him by Livia 
and Tiberius : u Anxius," says he, " occultis in se patrui 
aviaeque odiis, quorum causa; acriores quia iniqua;."-[- Here a 
profound moral observation is made; but, T ' 3 is made, without 
the appearance of making it in form ; it is introduced as a part 
of the narration, in assigning a reason for the anxiety of Ger- 
manicus. We have another instance of the same kind, in the 
account which he gives of a mutiny raised against Rufus, who 
was a prsefectus castrorum, on account of the severe labour 
which he imposed on the soldiers. * Quippe Rufus, diu mani- 
pularis, dein centurio, mox castris praefectus, antiquam dur anti- 
que militiam revocabat, vetus operis et laboris, et eo immitior 
quia toleraverat."^ There was room for turning this into a 

* " It belongs to human nature to hate the man whom you have injured." 
t " Uneasy in his mind, on account of the concealed hatred entertained 

against him by his uncle and grandmother, which was the more bitter because 

the cause of it was unjust." 

$ " For Rufus, who had long been a common soldier, afterwards a centurion, 

and at length a general officer, restored the severe military discipline of ancient 

times. Grown old amidst toils and labours, he was the more rigid in imposing 

them because he had been accustomed to bear them." 



486 LECTURE XXXV t. 

general observation, that they who have been educated and 
hardened in toils, are commonly found to be the most severe in 
requiring the like toils from others. But the manner in which 
Tacitus introduces this sentiment as a stroke in the character of 
Rufus, gives it much more life and spirit. This historian has a 
particular talent of intermixing after this manner, with the course 
of his narrative, many striking sentiments and useful obser- 
vations. 

Let us next proceed to consider the proper qualities of histo- 
rical narration. It is obvious, that on the manner of narration 
much must depend, as the first notion of history is the recital of 
past facts ; and how much one mode of recital may be prefer- 
able to another, we shall soon be convinced, by thinking of the 
different effects, which the same story, when told by two differ- 
ent persons, is found to produce. 

The first virtue of historical narration, is clearness, order, 
and due connection. To attain this, the historian must be 
completely master of his subject ; he must see the whole as at 
one view ; and comprehend the chain and dependence of all 
its parts, that he may introduce every thing in its proper place ; 
that he may lead us smoothly along the track of affairs which 
are recorded, and may always give us the satisfaction of seeing 
how one event arises out of another. Without this, there can be 
neither pleasure nor instruction in reading history. Much 
for this end will depend on the observance of that unity in the 
general plan and conduct, which in the preceding lecture, I re- 
commended. Much too will depend on the proper management 
of transitions, which forms one of the chief ornaments of this 
kind of writing, and is one of the most difficult in execution. 
Nothing tries an historian's abilities more, than so to lay his 
train before hand, as to make us pass naturally and agreeably 
from one part of his subject to another ; to employ no clumsy 
and awkward junctures ; and to contrive ways and means of 
forming some union among transactions, which seem to be most 
widely separated from one anothei . 

In the next place, as history is a very dignified species of 
composition, gravity must always be maintained in the narra- 
tion. There must be no meanness nor vulgarity in the style ; 
no quaint, nor colloquial phrases ; no affectation of pertness, 
or of wit. The smart, or the sneering manner of telling a story, 
is inconsistent with the historical character. I do not say, that 
an historian is never to let himself down. He may sometimes 
do it with propriety, in order to diversify the strain of his nar- 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 



487 



ration, which, if it be perfectly uniform, is apt to become tire- 
some. But he should be careful never to descend too far ; and, 
on occasions where a light or ludicrous anecdote is proper to 
be recorded, it is generally better to throw it into a note, than to 
hazard becoming too familiar by introducing it into the body of 
the work. 

But an historian may possess these qualities of being per- 
spicuous, distinct and grave, and may notwithstanding be a 
dull writer ; in which case, we shall reap little benefit from his 
labours. We shall read him without pleasure ; or, most 
probably, we shall soon give over reading him at all. He must 
therefore study to render his narration interesting; which is 
the quality that chiefly distinguishes a writer of genius and elo- 
quence. 

Two things are especially conducive to this ; the first is, 
a just medium in the conduct of narration, between a rapid or 
crowded recital of facts, and a prolix detail. The former 
embarrasses, and the latter tires us. An historian that would 
interest us, must know when to be concise, and where he ought 
to enlarge ; passing concisely over slight and unimportant 
events, but dwelling on such as are striking and considerable 
in their nature, or pregnant with consequences : preparing 
beforehand our attention to them, and bringing them forth into 
the most full and conspicuous light. The next thing he must 
attend to, is a proper selection of the circumstances belonging 
to those events which he chooses to relate fully. General facts 
make a slight impression on the mind. It is by means of cir- 
cumstances and particulars properly chosen, that a narration 
becomes interesting and affecting to the reader. These give 
life, body, and colouring to the recital of facts, and enable us to 
behold them as present, and passing before our eyes. It is this 
employment of circumstances, in narration, that is properly 
termed historical painting. 

In all these virtues of narration, particularly in this last, of 
picturesque descriptive narration, several of the ancient histo- 
rians eminently excel. Hence, the pleasure that is found in 
reading Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Livy, Sallust, and 
Tacitus : they are all conspicuous for the art of narration. 
Herodotus is, at all times, an agreeable writer, and relates every 
thing with that naivete and simplicity of manner, which never 
fails to interest the reader. Though the manner of Thucydides 
be more dry and harsh, yet on great occasions, as when he is 
giving an account of the plague in Athens, the siege of Platsea. 



■*M LECTURE XXXVf. 

the sedition in Corcyra, the defeat of the Athenians in Sicily, lie 
displays a very strong and masterly power of description. 
Xenophon's Cyropgedia, and his Anabasis, or Retreat of the Ten 
Thousand, are extremely beautiful. The circumstances are 
finely selected, and the narration is easy and engaging ; but his 
Hellenics, or Continuation of the History of Thucydides, is a 
much inferior work. Sallust's art of historical painting in his 
Catilinarian, but more especially in his Jugurthine War, is well 
known ; though his style is liable to censure, as too studied and 
affected. 

Livy is more unexceptionble in his manner ; and is excelled 
by no historian whatever in the art of narration ; several remark- 
able examples might be given from him. His account, for instance, 
of the famous defeat of the Roman army by the Samnites, at 
the Furcae Caudinae, in the beginning of the ninth book, affords 
one of the most beautiful exemplifications of historical painting, 
that is any where to be met with. We have, first, an exact 
description of the narrow pass between two mountains, into 
which the enemy had decoyed the Romans. When they find 
themselves caught, and no hope of escape left, we are made to 
see, first, their astonishment, next, their indignation, and then, 
their dejection, painted in the most lively manner, by such 
circumstances and actions as were natural to persons in their 
situation. The restless and unquiet manner in which they pass 
the night ; the consultations of the Samnites ; the various 
measures proposed to be taken ; the messages between the two 
armies, all heighten the scene. At length, in the morning, 
the consuls return to the camp, and inform them that they 
could receive no other terms but that of surrendering their 
arms, and passing under the yoke, which was considered as the 
last mark of ignominy for a conquered army. Part of what 
then follows, I shall give in the author's own words. " Redin- 
tegravit luctum in castris consulum adventus ; ut vix ab iis 
abstinerent manus, quorum temeritate in eum locum deducti 
essent. Alii alios intueri, contemplari arma mox tradenda, et 
inermes futuras dextras ; proponere sibimet ipsi ante oculos 
jugum hostile, et ludibria victoris, et vultus superbos, et per 
armatos inermium iter. Inde foedi agminis miserabilem viam, 
per sociorum urbes reditum in patriam ad parentes, quo saspe 
ipsi triumphantes venissent Se solos sine vulnere, sine ferro, 
sine acie victos ; sibi non stringere licuisse gladios, non manum 
cum hoste conserere ; sibi nequicquam arma, nequicquam vires, 
nequicquam animos datos. Hsec frementibus, hora fatolis igno- 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 489 

minisc advenit. Jamprimum, cum singulis vestimentis, inermes 
extra vallum exire jussi. Turn a consulibus abire lictores jussi, 
paludamentaque detracta. Tantam inter ipsos, qui paulo ante 
eos dedendos, lacerandosque censuerant, miserationem fecit, ut 
suae quisque conditionis oblitus, ab ilia deformatione tantas 
majestatis, velut ab nefando spectaculo, averteret oculos* Prirai 
consules, prope seminudi, sub jugum missi," &c* The rest of 
the story, which it would be too long to insert, is carried on 
with the same beauty, and full of picturesque circumstances.-j- 

Tacitus is another author eminent for historical painting, 
though in a manner altogether different from that of Livy. 

* " The arrival of the consuls in the camp, wrought up their passions to 
such a degree, that they could scarcely abstain from laying violent hands on 
thein, as by their rashness they had been brought into this situation. They 
began to look on one another; to cast a melancholy eye on their arms, which 
were now to be surrendered, and on their right hands, which were to become 
defenceless. The yoke under which they were to pass ; the scoffs of the con- 
querors ; and their haughty looks, when disarmed and stripped, they should be 
led through the hostile lines; all rose before their eyes. They then looked 
forward to the sad journey which awaited them, when they were to pass as a 
vanquished and disgraced army through the territories of their allies, by whom 
they had often been beheld returning in triumph to their families and native 
land. They alone, they muttered to one another, without an engagement, 
without a single blow, had been conquered. To their hard fate it fell, never to 
have had it in their power to draw a sword, or to look an enemy in the face; 
to them only, arms, strength, and courage, had been given in vain. While 
they were thus giving vent to their indignation, the fatal moment of their igno- 
miny arrived. First, they were all commanded to come forth from the camp, 
without armour, and in a single garment. Next, orders were given, that the con- 
suls should be left without their lictors, and that they should be stripped of their 
robes. Such commiseration did this affront excite among them, who, but a 
ittle before, had been for delivering up those very consuls to the enemy, and 
for putting them to death, that every one forgot his own condition, and turned 
his eyes aside from this infamous disgrace, suffered by the consular dignity, as 
from a spectacle which was too detestable to be beheld. The consuls, almost half 
naked, were first made to pass under the yoke," &c. 

t The description which Caesar gives of the consternation occasioned in his 
:amp, by the accounts which were spread among his troops, of the ferocity, the 
size, and the courage of the Germans, affords an instance of historical painting, 
executed in a simple manner ; and, at the same time, exhibiting a natural and 
lively scene: "Dum paucos dies ad Vesontionem moratur, ex percunctatione 
noslrorum vocibusque Gallorum ac mercatorum, qui ingenti magnitudine corpo- 
rum Germanos, incredibili virtute, atque exercitatione in armis esse praedicabant ; 
saepenumero sese cum eis congressos ue vultum quidem atque aciem oculorum 
ferre potuisse, tantus subito timor omnem exercitum occupavit, ut non medi- 
ocriter omnium mentes animosque perturbaret. Hicprimum ortus est a tribunis 
militum, praefectis reliquisque, qui, ex urbe amicitiae causa Caesarem secuti, suum 
periculum miserabantur, quod non magnum in re militariusum habebant : quorum 
alius alia causa illata, quam sibi ad proficiscendum necessariam esse dicere* 
petebat, ut ejus voluntate discedere liceret. Nonnulli, pudore adducti, ut timons 
suspicionem vitarent, remanebant. Hi neque vultum fingere, neque intcrdurn 
lacrymas tenere poterant. Abditi in tabernaculis, aut suum fatum querebantur, 
aut cum familiaribus suis commune periculum miserabantur. Vulgo totis castris 
testamenta obsignabantur."— De Bell. Gall. lib. i. 39. 



490 LECTURE XXXVI. 

Livy's descriptions are more full, more plain, and natural ; 
those of Tacitus consist in a few bold strokes. He selects one 
or two remarkable circumstances, and sets them before us in a 
strong, and, generally, in a new and uncommon light. Such is 
the following picture of the situation of Rome, and of the Em- 
peror Galba, when Otho was advancing against him : " Agebatur 
hue illuc Galba, vario turbss fluctuantis impulsu, completis un- 
dique basilicis et templis, lugubri prospectu. Neque populi aut 
plebis ulla vox ; sed attoniti vultus et conversee ad omnia aures. 
Non tumultus, non quies ; quale magni metus et magnae irae, 
silentium est."* No image in any poet, is more strong and ex- 
pressive than this last stroke of the description : " Non tumultus, 
non quies ; quale," &c. This is a conception of the sublime 
kind, and discovers high genius. Indeed, throughout all his 
work, Tacitus shows the hand of a master. As he is profound 
in reflection, so he is striking in description, and pathetic in 
sentiment. The philosopher, the poet, and the historian, all 
meet in him. Though the period of which he writes may be 
reckoned unfortunate for an historian, he has made it afford us 
many interesting exhibitions of human nature. The relations 
which he gives of the deaths of several eminent personages, are 
as affecting as the deepest tragedies. He paints with a glowing 
pencil ; and possesses, beyond all writers, the talent of painting, 
not to the imagination merely, but to the heart. With many of 
the most distinguished beauties, he is, at the same time, not a 
perfect model for history ; and such as have formed themselves 
upon him, have seldom been successful. He is to be admired, 
rather than imitated. In his reflections, he is too refined ; in his 
style, too concise, sometimes quaint and affected, often abrupt 
and obscure. History seems to require a more natural, flowing, 
and popular manner 

The ancients employed one embellishment of history which 
the moderns have laid aside, I mean orations, which, on weighty 
occasions, they put into the mouths of some of their chief per- 
sonages. By means of these, they diversified their history ; 
they conveyed both moral and political instruction ; and, by the 
opposite arguments which were employed, they gave us a view 
of the sentiments of different parties. Thucydides was the first 

* " Galba was driven to and fro by the tide of the multitude, shoving him 
from place to place. The temples and public buildings were filled with crowds 
of a dismal appearance. No clamours were heard, either from the citizens, or 
from the rabble. Their countenances were filled with consternation ; their ears 
were employed in listening with anxiety. It was not a tumult; it was not quiet- 
ness ; it was the silence of terror and of wrath." Hist. i. 40. 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 



431 



■who introduced this method. The orations with which his his- 
tory abounds, and those too of some other Greek and Latin his- 
torians, are among the most valuable remains which we have of 
ancient eloquence. How beautiful soever they are, it may be 
much questioned, I think, whether they find a proper place in 
history. I am rather inclined to think, that they are unsuitable 
to it. For they form a mixture which is unnatural in history, 
of fiction with truth. We know that these orations are entirely 
of the author's own composition, and that he has introduced 
some celebrated person haranguing in a public place, purely 
that he might have an opportunity of showing his own eloquence, 
or delivering his own sentiments, under the name of that person. 
This is a sort of poetical liberty which does not suit the gravity 
of history, throughout which an air of the strictest truth should 
always reign. Orations may be an embellishment to history ; 
such might also poetical compositions be, introduced under the 
name of some of the personages mentioned in the narration, who 
were known to have possessed poetical talents. But neither the 
one nor the other finds a proper place in history. Instead of 
inserting formal orations, the method adopted by later writers 
seems better and more natural ; that of the historian, on some 
great occasion, delivering, in his own person, the sentiments and 
reasonings of the opposite parties, or the substance of what was 
understood to be spoken in some public assembly ; which he 
may do without the liberty of fiction. 

The drawing of characters is one of the most splendid, and, 
at the same time, one of the most difficult ornaments of historical 
composition. For characters are generally considered, as pro- 
fessed exhibitions of fine writing ; and an historian who seeks to 
shine in them, is frequently in danger of carrying refinement to 
excess, from a desire of appearing very profound and penetrat- 
ing. He brings together so many contrasts, and subtile opposi- 
tions of qualities, that we are rather dazzled with sparkling 
expressions, than entertained with any clear conception of a 
human character. A writer who would characterise in an in- 
structive and masterly manner, should be simple in his style, 
and should avoid all quaintness and affectation ; at the same 
time, not contenting himself with giving us general outlines 
only, but descending into those peculiarities which mark a 
character, in its most strong and distinctive features. The Greek 
historians sometimes give eulogiums, but rarely draw full and 
professed characters. The two ancient authors who have la- 



492 LECTURE XXXVI. 

boured this part of historical composition inost, are Sallust and 
Tacitus. 

As history is a species of writing designed for the instruction 
of mankind, sound morality should always reign in it. Both 
in describing characters, and in relating transactions, the au- 
thor should always show himself to be on the side of virtue 
To deliver moral instruction in a formal manner, falls not 
within his province ; but both as a good man, and as a good 
writer, we expect, that he should discover sentiments of respect 
for virtue, and an indignation at flagrant vice. To appear 
neutral and indifferent with respect to good and bad characters, 
and to affect a crafty and political, rather than a moral turn of 
thought, will, besides other bad effects, derogate greatly from 
the weight of historical composition, and will render the strain 
of it much more cold and uninteresting. We are always most 
interested in the transactions which are going on, when our 
sympathy is awakened by the story, and when we become en- 
gaged in the fate of the actors. But this effect can never be 
produced by a writer, who is deficient in sensibility and moral 
feeling. 

As the observations which I have hitherto made, have mostly 
respected the ancient historians, it may naturally be expected 
that I should also take some notice of the moderns who have ex- 
celled in this kind of writing. 

The country in Europe, where the historical genius, has, in 
latter ages, shone forth with most lustre, beyond doubt, is Italy. 
The national character of the Italians seems favourable to 
it. They were always distinguished as an acute, penetrating* p 
reflecting people, remarkable for political sagacity and wisdom, 
and who early adicated themselves to the arts of writing. Ac 
cordingly, soon after the restoration of letters, Machiavel, Guic- 
ciardini, Davila, Bentivoglio, Father Paul, became highly con- , 
spicuous for historical merit. They all appear to have conceived , 
very just ideas of history ; and are agreeable, instructive, and in 
teresting writers. In their manner of narration, they are formed 
upon the ancients ; some of them, as Bentivoglio and Guicciar 
dini, have, in imitation of them introduced orations into their 
history. In the profoundness and distinctness of their political 
views, they may, perhaps, be esteemed to have surpassed the 
ancients. Critics have, at the same time, observed some im- 
perfections in each of them. Machiavel, in his History of Flo- 
rence, is not altogether so interesting as one would expect an 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 45>a 

author of his abilities to be ; either through his own defect, or 
through some unhappiness in his subject, which led him into a 
very minute detail of the intrigues of one city. Guicciardini, at ' 
all times sensible and profound, is taxed for dwelling so long 
on the Tuscan affairs as to be sometimes tedious ; a defect which 
is also imputed, occasionally, to the judicious Father Paul 
Bentivoglio, in his excellent History of the Wars of Flanders, 
is accused for approaching to the florid and pompous manner . 
and Davila, though one of the most agreeable and entertaining 
relaters, has manifestly this defect, of spreading a sort of uni- 
formity over all his characters, by representing them as guided 
too regularly by political interest. But although some such ob- 
jections may be made to these authors, they deserve, upon the 
whole, to be placed in the first rank of modern historical wri- 
ters. The Wars of Flanders, written in Latin by Famianus 
Strada, is a book of some note; but is not entitled to the 
same reputation as the works of the other historians I have 
named. Strada is too violently partial to the Spanish cause ; 
and too open a panegyrist of the Prince of Parma. He is florid, 
diffuse, and an affected imitator of the manner and style of 
Livy. 

Among the French, as there has been much good writing 
in many kinds, so also in the historical. That ingenious nation, 
Avho have done so much honour to modern literature, possess, 
in an eminent degree, the talent of narration. Many of their 
later historical writers are spirited, lively, and agreeable ; and 
some of them not deficient in profoundness and penetration. 
They have not, however, produced any such capital historians 
as the Italians whom I mentioned above. 

Our island, till within these few years, was not eminent for 
its historical productions. Early, indeed, Scotland acquired 
reputation by means of the celebrated Buchanan. He is an ele- 
gant writer, classical in his Latinity, and agreeable both in nar- 
ration and description. But one cannot but suspect him to 
6e more attentive to elegance, than to accuracy. Accustomed 
to form his political notions wholly upon the plans of ancient 
governments, the feudal system seems never to have entered 
into his thoughts ; and as this was the basis of the Scottish con- 
stitution, his political views are, of course, inaccurate and 
imperfect. When he comes to the transactions of his own times, 
there is such a change in his manner of writing, and such an 
asperity in his style, that, on what side soever the truth lies 
with regard to those dubious and long controverted facts which 



494 LECTURE XXXVI. 

make the subject of that part of his work, it is impossible 
to clear hira from being deeply tinctured with the spirit of 
party. 

Among the older English historians, the most considerable 
is Lord Clarendon. Though he writes as the professed apologist 
of one side, yet there appears more impartiality in his relation 
of facts, than might at first be expected. A great spirit of vir- 
tue and probity runs through his work. He maintains all the 
dignity of an historian. His sentences, indeed, are often too 
long, and his general manner is prolix, but his style, on the 
whole, is manly ; and his merit, as an historian, is much beyond 
mediocrity. Bishop Burnet is lively and perspicuous ; but he 
has hardly any other historical merit. His style is too careless 
and familiar for history : his characters are, indeed, marked 
with a bold and strong hand, but they are generally light and 
satirical ; and he abounds so much in little stories concerning 
himself, that he resembles more a writer of memoirs than of his- 
tory. During a long period, English historical authors seemed 
to aim at nothing higher than an exact relation of facts ; till of 
late the distinguished names of Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon, 
have raised the British character, in this species of writing, to 
high reputation and dignity. 

I observed, in the preceding lecture, that annals, memoirs, 
and lives, are the inferior kinds of historical composition. It 
will be proper, before dismissing this subject, to make a few 
observations upon them. Annals are commonly understood to 
signify a collection of facts, digested according to chronological 
order ; rather serving for the materials of history, than aspiring 
to the name of history themselves. All that is required, there- 
fore, in a writer of such annals, is to be faithful, distinct, and 
complete. 

Memoirs denote a sort of composition, in which an author 
does not pretend to give full information of all the facts respect- 
ing the period of which he writes, but only to relate what he 
himself had access to know, or what he was concerned in, or 
what illustrates the conduct of some person, or the circumstances 
of some transaction which he chooses for his subject. From a 
writer of memoirs, therefore, is not expected the same pro- 
found research or enlarged information, as from a writer of his- 
tory. He is not subject to the same laws of unvarying dignity 
and gravity. He may talk freely of himself; he may descend 
into the most familiar anecdotes. What is chiefly required of 
Lirn is, that he be sprightly and interesting; and especially 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 



495 



that he inform us of things that are useful and curious ; that he 
convey to us some sort of knowledge worth the acquiring. 
This is a species of writing very bewitching to such as love to 
write concerning themselves, and conceive every transaction, in 
which they had a share, to be of singular importance. There is 
no wonder, therefore, that a nation so sprightly as the French, 
should, for two centuries past, have been pouring forth a whole 
flood of memoirs ; the greatest part of which are little more than 
agreeable trifles. „ 

Some, however, must be excepted from this general charac- 
ter ; two in particular ; the Memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz, 
and those of the Duke of Sully. From Retz's memoirs, besides 
the pleasure of agreeable and lively narration, we may derive 
also much instruction, and much knowledge of human nature. 
Though his politics be often too fine-spun, yet the memoirs of a 
professed factious leader, such as the cardinal was, wherein he 
draws both his own character, and that of several great person- 
ages of his time, so fully, cannot be read by any person of good 
sense without benefit. The Memoirs of the Duke of Sully, in the 
state in which they are now given to the public, have great merit, 
and deserve to be mentioned with particular praise. No me- 
moirs approach more nearly to the usefulness, and the dignity of 
a full legitimate history. They have this peculiar advantage, of 
giving us a beautiful display of two of the most illustrious charac- 
ters which history presents ; Sully himself, one of the ablest and 
most incorrupt ministers, and Henry IV., one of the greatest and 
most amiable princes of modern times. I know few books more 
full of virtue, and of good sense, than Sully's Memoirs ; few 
therefore, more proper to form both the heads and the hearts of 
such as are designed for public business, and action, in the world. 

Biography, or the writing of lives, is a very useful kind of 
composition ; less formal and stately than history ; but to the 
bulk of readers, perhaps, no less instructive, as it affords them 
the opportunity of seeing the characters and tempers, the virtues 
and failings of eminent men fully displayed : and admits them 
into a more thorough and intimate acquaintance with such per- 
sons, than history generally allows. For a writer of lives may 
descend, with propriety, to minute circumstances, and familiar 
incidents. It is expected of him, that he is to give the private, 
as well as the public life, of the person whose actions he re- 
cords , nay, it is from private life, from familiar, domestic, and 
seemingly trivial occurrences, that we often receive most light 
into the real character. In this species of writing, Plutarch has 



4DG LECTURE XXXV 1. 

no small merit ; and to him we stand indebted for much of the 
knowledge that we possess, concerning several of the most 
eminent personages of antiquity. Flis matter is, indeed, better 
than his manner ; as he cannot lay claim to any peculiar beauty 
or elegance. His judgment too, and his accuracy, have some- 
times been taxed : but whatever defects of this kind he may be 
liable to, his Lives of Eminent Men will always be considered as 
a valuable treasure of instruction. He is remarkable for being 
one of the most humane writers of all antiquity ; less dazzled 
than many of them are, with the exploits of valour and ambi- 
tion ; and fond of displaying his great men to us, in the more 
gentle lights of retirement and private life. 

I cannot conclude the subject of history, without taking 
notice of a very great improvement which has, of late years, 
begun to be introduced into historical composition ; I mean a 
more particular attention than was formerly given to laws, cus- 
toms, commerce, religion, literature, and every other thing 
that tends to show the spirit and genius of nations. It is now 
understood to be the business of an able historian to exhibit 
manners, as well as facts and events ; and assuredly, whatever 
displays the state and life of mankind, in different periods, and 
illustrates the progress of the human mind, is more useful 
and interesting than the detail of sieges and battles. The 
person to whom we are most indebted for the introduction 
of this improvement into history, is the celebrated M. Vol- 
taire, whose genius has shone with such surprising lustre, in 
so many different parts of literature. His Age of Louis 
XIV. was one of the first great productions in this taste ; 
and soon drew throughout all Europe, that general attention, 
and received that high approbation, which so ingenious and 
eloquent a production merited. His Essay on the general 
history of Europe, since the days of Charlemagne, is not to 
be considered either as a history, or the proper plan of an 
historical work ; but only as a series of observations on the 
chief events that have happened throughout several centuries, 
and on the changes that successively took place in the spirit 
and manners of different nations. Though, in some dates 
and facts, it may, perhaps, be inaccurate, and is tinged with 
those particularities which unhappily distinguish Voltaire's 
manner of thinking on religious subjects, yet it contains so 
many enlarged and instractive views, as justly to merit the 
attention of all who either read or write the history of thos* 
ages 



497 



LECTURE XXXVII. 

PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING— DIALOGUE— EPISTOLARY WRITING- 
FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 

As history is both a very dignified species of composition, 
and, by the regular form which it assumes, falls directly under 
the laws of criticism, I discoursed of it fully in the two preceding 
lectures. The remaining species of composition, in prose, afford 
less room for critical observation. 

Philosophical writing, for instance, will not lead us into any 
long discussion. As the professed object of philosophy is to 
convey instruction, and as they who study it are supposed to do 
so for instruction, not for entertainment, the style, the form, 
and dress of such writings, are less material objects. They are 
objects, however, that must not be wholly neglected. He who 
attempts to instruct mankind, without studying, at the same 
time, to engage their attention, and to interest them in his sub- 
ject by his manner of exhibiting it, is not likely to prove suc- 
cessful. The same truths and reasonings, delivered in a dry 
and cold manner, or with a proper measure of elegance and 
ybeauty, will make very different impressions on the minds of 
men. 

It is manifest that every philosophical, writer must study the 
utmost perspicuity : and, by reflecting on what was formerly 
delivered on the subject of perspicuity, with respect both to 
single words, and the construction of sentences, we may be con- 
vinced that this is a study which demands considerable attention 
to the rules of style, and good writing. Beyond mere perspicuity, 
strict accuracy and precision are required in a philosophical 
writer. He must employ no word of uncertain meaning, no 
loose nor indeterminate expressions ; and should avoid using 
words which are seemingly synonymous, without carefully at- 
tending to the variation which they make upon the idea. 

To be clear then, and precise, is one requisite which we 
have a title to demand from every philosophical writer. He 
may possess this quality, and be at the same time a very dry 
writer. He should therefore study some degree of embellish- 
ment, in order to render his composition pleasing and graceful. 
One of the most agreeable, and one of the most useful embellish- 
ments which a philosopher can employ, consists in illustrations 
taken from historical facts, and the characters of men. All 

2 K 



491) LECTURE XXXVII. 

moral and political subjects naturally afford scope for these , 
and wherever there is room for employing them, they seldom 
fail of producing a happy effect. They diversify the composi- 
tion ; they relieve the mind from the fatigue of mere reasoning, 
and at the same time raise more full conviction than any reason- 
ings produce ; for they take philosophy out of the abstract, and 
give weight to speculation, by showing its connexion with real 
life, and the actions of mankind. 

Philosophical writing admits besides of a polished, a neat, 
and elegant style. It admits of metaphors, comparisons, and 
all the calm figures of speech, by which an author may convey 
his sense to the understanding with clearness and force, at the 
same time that he entertains the imagination. He must take 
great care, however, that all his ornaments be of the chastest 
kind, never partaking of the florid or the tumid ; which is so un- 
pardonable in a professed philosopher, that it is much better for 
him to err on the side of naked simplicity, than on that of too 
much ornament. Some of the ancients, as Plato and Cicero, 
have left us philosophical treatises composed with much ele- 
gance and beauty. Seneca has been long and justly censured 
for the affectation that appears in his style. He is too fond of a 
certain brilliant and sparkling manner ; of antitheses and cmaint 
sentences. It cannot be denied, at the same time, that he often 
expresses himself with much liveliness and force ; though his 
style, upon the whole, is far from deserving imitation. In En- 
glish, Mr. Locke's celebrated Treatise on Human Understand- 
ing, may be pointed out as a model, on the one hand, of the 
greatest clearness and distinctness of philosophical style, with 
very little approach to ornament : Lord Shaftesbury's writings, 
on the other hand, exhibit philosophy dressed up with all the or- 
nament which it can admit ; perhaps with more than is perfectly 
suited to it. 

Philosophical composition sometimes assumes a form, under 
which it mingles more with works of taste, when carried on in 
the way of dialogue and conversation. Under this form the 
ancients have given us some of their chief philosophical works ; 
and several of the moderns have endeavoured to imitate them. 
Dialogue writing may be executed in two ways, either as direct 
conversation, where none but the speakers appear, which is the 
method that Plato uses ; or as the recital of a conversation, 
where the author himself appears, and gives an account of what 
passed in discourse ; which is the method that Cicero generally 
follows. But though those different methods make some varia- 



DIALOGUE. 400 

tion in the form, yet the nature of the composition is at bottom 
the same in both, and subject to the same laws. 

A dialogue in one or other of these forms, on some philo- 
sophical, moral, or critical subject, when it is well conducted, 
stands in a high rank among the works of taste ; but is much 
more difficult in the execution than is commonly imagined. 
For it requires more, than merely the introduction of different 
persons speaking in succession. It ought to be a natural and 
spirited representation of real conversation ; exhibiting the cha- 
racter and manners of the several speakers, and suiting to the 
character of each that peculiarity of thought and expression 
which distinguishes him from another. A dialogue, thus con- 
ducted, gives the reader a very agreeable entertainment ; as by 
means of the debate going on among the personages, he receives 
a fair and full view of both sides of the argument ; and is, at the 
same time, amused with polite conversation, and with a display 
of consistent and well supported characters. An author, there- 
fore, who has genius for executing such a composition after this 
manner, has it in his power both to instruct and to please. 

But the greatest part of modern dialogue writers have no 
idea of any composition of this sort ; and bating the outward 
forms of conversation, and that one speaks, and another answers, 
it is quite the same as if the author spoke in person throughout 
the whole. He sets up a Philotheus, perhaps, and a Philatheos, 
or an A and a B ; who, after mutual compliments, and after ad- 
miring the fineness of the morning or evening, and the beauty of 
the prospects around them, enter into conference concerning 
some grave matter; and all that we. know further of them is, 
that the one personates the author, a man of learning, no doubt.^ 
and of good principles ; and the other is a man of straw, set up 
to propose some trivial objections : over which the first gains a 
most entire triumph, and leaves his sceptical antagonist at the 
end much humbled, and, generally, convinced of his error. This 
is a very frigid and insipid manner of writing ; the more so, as 
it is an attempt towards something, which we see the author 
cannot support. It is the form, without the spirit of conversation. 
The dialogue serves no purpose, but to make awkward interrup- 
tions ; and we should with more patience hear the author con- 
tinuing always to reason himself, and to remove the objections 
that are made to his principles, than be troubled with the un- 
meaning appearance of two persons, whom we see to be in 
re iity no more than one. 

Among the ancients, Plato is eminent for the beauty of his 

2 k 2 



600 LECTURE XXXVII. 

Dialogues. The scenery, and the circumstances of many of 
them, are beautifully painted. The characters of the sophists, 
with whom Socrates disputed, are well drawn ; a variety of per- 
sonages are exhibited to us ; we are introduced into a real con- 
versation, often supported with much life and spirit, after the 
Socratic manner. For richness and beauty of imagination, no 
philosophic writer, ancient or modern, is comparable to Plato. 
The only fault of his imagination is, such an excess of fertility 
as allows it sometimes to obscure his judgment. It frequently 
carries him into allegory, fiction, enthusiasm, and the airy 
regions of mystical theology. The philosopher is, at times, lost 
in the poet. But whether we be edified with the matter or not 
(and much edification he often affords,) we are always enter- 
tained with the manner ; and left with a strong impression of 
the sublimity of the author's genius. 

Cicero's Dialogues, or those recitals of conversation which 
he has introduced into several of his philosophical and critical 
works, are not so spirited, nor so characteristical, as those of 
Plato. Yet same, as that De Oratore especially, are agreeable 
and well supported. They show us conversation carried on 
among some of the principal persons of ancient Rome, with 
freedom, good-breeding, and dignity. The author of the ele- 
gant dialogue De Causis Corrupts Eloquentia, which is annexed 
sometimes to the works of Quintilian, and sometimes to those 
of Tacitus, has happily imitated, perhaps has excelled Cicero, in 
this manner of writing. 

Lucian is a dialogue writer of much eminence ; though his 
subjects are seldom such as can entitle him to be ranked among 
philosophical authors. He has given the model of the light 
and humourous dialogue, and has carried it to great perfection. 
A character of levity, and at the same time of wit and penetra- 
tion, distinguishes all his writings. His great object was, to 
expose the follies of superstition, and the pedantry of philo- 
sophy, which prevailed in his age ; and he could not have taken 
any more successful method for this end, than what he has em- 
ployed in his Dialogues, especially in those of the Gods and of 
the Dead, which are full of pleasantry and satire. In this in- 
vention of dialogues of the dead, he has been followed by several 
modern authors, Fontenelle in particular, has given us 
dialogues of this sort, which are sprightly and agreeable ; but 
as for characters, whoever his personages be, they all become 
Frenchmen in his hands. Indeed, few things in composition are 
more difficult, than in the course of a moral dialogue to exhibit 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 501 

characters properly distinguished ; as calm conversation Fin- 
nishes none of those assistances for bringing characters into 
light, which the active scenes, and interesting situations of the 
drama, afford. Hence few authors are eminent for characters 
tical dialogue on grave subjects. One of the most remarkable 
in the English language, is a writer of the last age, Dr. Henry 
More, in his Divine Dialogues, relating to the foundations of 
natural religion. Though his style be now in some measure 
obsolete, and his speakers be marked with the academic stiffness 
of those times, yet the dialogue is animated by a variety of 
character, and a sprightliness of conversation, beyond what are 
commonly met with in writings of this kind. Bishop Berke- 
ley's Dialogues concerning the existence of matter, do not at- 
tempt any display of characters ; but furnish an instance of a 
very abstract subject, rendered clear and intelligible by means of 
conversation properly managed. 

I proceed next to make some observation on Epistolary 
Writing, which possesses a kind of middle place between the 
serious and amusing species of composition. Epistolary writing 
appears, at first view, to stretch into a very wide field. For 
there is no subject whatever, on which one may not convey his 
thoughts to the public, in the form of a letter. Lord Shaftes- 
bury, for instance, Mr. Harris, and several other writers, have 
chosen to give this form to philosophical treatises. But this is 
not sufficient to class such treatises under the head of epistolary 
composition. Though they bear, in the title-page, a Letter to 
a Friend, after the first address, the friend disappears, and we 
see that it is, in truth, the public with whom the author corre- 
sponds. Seneca's Epistles are of this sort. There is no proba- 
bility that they ever passed in correspondence as real letters 
They are no other than miscellaneous dissertations on moral 
subjects ; which the author, for his convenience,, chose to put 
into the epistolary form. Even where one writes a real letter on 
some formal topic, as of moral or religious consolation, to a 
person under distress, such as Sir William Temple has written 
to the Countess of Essex on the death of her daughter, he is at 
liberty, on such ocasions, to write wholly as a divine or as a 
philosopher, and to assume the style and manner of one, with- 
out reprehension. We consider the author not as writing a 
letter, but as composing a discourse, suited particularly to the 
circumstances of some one person. 

Epistolary writing becomes a distinct species of compo- 
sition, subject to the cognizance of criticism, only, or chiefly, 



; 

502 LECTURE XX XV II. 

when it is of the easy and familiar kind ; when it is conversa- 
tion carried on upon paper, between two friends at a distance. 
Such an intercourse, when well conducted, may be rendered 
very agreeable to readers of taste. If the subject of the letters 
be important, they will be the more valuable. Even though 
there should be nothing very considerable in the subject ; yet if 
the spirit and turn of the correspondence be agreeable ; if they 
be written in a sprightly manner, and with native grace and 
ease, they may still be entertaining ; more especially, if there be 
any thing to interest us, in the characters of those who write 
them. Hence the curiosity which the public has always dis- 
covered concerning the letters of eminent persons. We expect 
in them to discover somewhat of their real character. It is 
childish indeed to expect, that in letters we are to find the 
whole heart of the author unveiled. Concealment and disguise 
take place, more or less, in all human intercourse. But stilly 
as letters from one friend to another make the nearest approach 
to conversation, we may expect to see more of a character dis- 
played in these than in other productions, which are studied for 
public view. We please ourselves with beholding the writer in 
a situation which allows him to bo at his ease, and to give vent 
occasionally to the overflowings of his heart. 

Much, therefore, of the merit, and the agreeableness of 
epistolary writing, will depend on its introducing us into some 
acquaintance with the writer. There, if any where, we look for 
the man, not for the author. Its first and fundamental requisite 
is, to be natural and simple ; for a stiff and laboured manner is 
as bad in a letter, as it is in conversation. This does not banish 
sprightliness and wit. These are graceful in letters, just as 
they are in conversation ; when they flow easily, and without 
being studied ; when employed so as to season, not to cloy. One 
who, either in conversation or in letters, affects to shine and to 
sparkle always, will not please long. The style of letters should 
not be too highly polished. It ought to be neat and correct, but 
no more. All nicety about words, betrays study ; and hence 
musical periods, and appearances of number and harmony in 
arrangement, should be carefully avoided in letters. The best 
letters are commonly such as the authors have written with 
most facility. What the heart or the imagination dictates, 
always flows readily ; but where there is no subject to warm or 
interest these, constraint appears ; and hence, those letters of 
mere compliment, congratulation, or affected condolence, which 
have cost the authors most labour in composing, and which, 



EPISTOLARY WRITING. 503 

for that reason, they perhaps consider as their master-pieces, 
never fail of being the most disagreeable and insipid to the 
readers. 

It ought, at the same time, to be remembered, that the ease 
and simplicity which I have recommended in epistolary corre- 
spondence, are not to be understood as importing entire care- 
lessness. In writing to the most intimate friend, a certain 
degree of attention, both to the subject and the style, is requi- 
site and becoming. It is no more than what we owe both to 
ourselves, and to the friend with whom we correspond A slo- 
venly and negligent manner of writing, is a disobliging mark of 
want of respect. The liberty, besides, of writing letters with 
too careless a hand, is apt to betray persons into imprudence in 
what they write. The first requisite, both in conversation and 
correspondence, is to attend to all the proper decorums which 
our own character, and that of others, demand. An imprudent 
expression in conversation may be forgotten and pass away ; 
but when we take the pen into our hand, we must remember, 
that, " litera scripta manet." 

Pliny's Letters are one of the most celebrated collections 
which the ancients have given us, in the epistolary way. They 
are elegant and polite ; and exhibit a very pleasing and amiable 
view of the author. But, according to the vulgar phrase, they 
smell too much of the lamp. They are too elegant and fine ; and 
it is not easy to avoid thinking, that the author is casting an eye 
towards the public, when he is appearing to write only for his 
friends. Nothing indeed is more difficult, than for an author, 
who publishes his own letters, to divest himself altogether of 
attention to the opinion of the world in what he says ; by which 
means, he becomes much less agreeable than a man of parts 
would be, if, without any constraint of this sort, he were wri- 
ting to his intimate friend. 

Cicero's Epistles, though not so shewy as those of Pliny, are, 
on several accounts, a far more valuable collection, indeed, the 
most valuable collection of letters extant in any language. They 
are letters of real business, written to the greatest men of the 
age, composed with purity and elegance, but without the 
least affectation ; and, what adds greatly to their merit, written 
without any intention of being published to the world. For it. 
appears, that Cicero never kept copies of his own letters ; and 
we are wholly indebted to the care of his freedman Tyro, for 
the large collection that was made, after his death, of those 



501 LECTURE XXXVII. 

which are now extant, amounting to near a thousand.* They 
contain the most authentic materials of the history of that age ; 
and are the last monuments which remain of Rome in its free 
state ; the greatest part of them being written during that im- 
portant crisis, when the republic was on the point of ruin ; the 
most interesting situation, perhaps, which is to be found in the 
affairs of mankind. To his intimate friends, especially to Atti- 
cus, Cicero lays open himself and his heart, with entire freedom 
In the course of his correspondence with others, we are intro- 
duced into acquaintance with several of the principal personages 
of Rome ; and it is remarkable, that most of Cicero's corres- 
pondents, as well as himself, are elegant and polite writers ; 
which serves to heighten our ideas of the taste and manners of 
that age. 

The most distinguished collection of letters in the English 
language, is that of Mr. Pope, Dean Swift, and their friends ; 
partly published in Mr. Pope's works, and partly in those of 
Dean Swift. This collection is, on the whole, an entertaining 
and agreeable one ; and contains much wit and refinement. It is 
not, however, altogether free from the fault which I imputed to 
Pliny's Epistles, of too much study and refinement. In the va- 
riety of letters from different persons, contained in that collec- 
tion, we find many that are written with ease, and a beautiful 
simplicity. Those of Dr. Arbuthnot, in particular, always de- 
serve that praise. Dean Swift's also are unaffected ; and as a 
proof of their being so, they exhibit his character fully, with all 
its defects ; though it were to be wished, for the honour of his 
memory, that his epistolary correspondence had not been drained 
to the dregs, by so many successive publications, as have been 
given to the world. Several of Lord Bolingbroke's, and of 
Bishop Atterbury's letters, are masterly. The censure of writing 
letters in too artificial a manner falls heaviest on Mr. Pope him- 
self. There is visibly more study, and less of nature and the 
heart in his letters, than in those of some of his correspondents. 
He had formed himself on the manner of Voiture, and is too 
fond of writing like a wit. His letters to ladies are full of affec- 
tation. Even in writing to his friends, how forced an introduc- 
tion is the following, of a letter to Mr. Addison : K I am more 

* See his letter to Atticus, which was written a year or two before his 
death, in which he tells him, in answer to some inquiries concerning his epistles, 
that he had no collection of them, and that Tyro had only about seventy of 
them.— Ad. Att. xvi. 5. 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 



r>05 



joyed at your return, than I should be at that of the sun, as 
much as I wish for him in this melancholy wet season ; but it is 
his fate too, like yours, to be displeasing to owls and obscene 
animals, who cannot bear his lustre." How stiff a compliment 
is it, which he pays to Bishop Atterbury ! " Though the noise 
and daily bustle for the public be now over, I dare say you are 
still tendering its welfare ; as the sun in winter, when seeming to 
retire from the world, is preparing warmth and benedictions for 
a better season." This sentence might be tolerated in a harangue ; 
but is very unsuitable to the style of one friend corresponding 
with another. 

The gaiety and vivacity of the French genius appear to 
much advantage in their letters, and have given birth to several 
agreeable publications. In the last age, Balzac and Voiture 
were the two most celebrated epistolary writers. Balzac's repu- 
tation indeed soon declined, on account of his swelling periods 
and pompous style. But Voiture continued long a favourite au- 
thor. His composition is extremely sparkling ; he shows a great 
deal of wit, and can trifle in the most entertaining manner. 
His only fault is, that he is too open and professed a wit, to be 
thoroughly agreeable as a letter writer. The Letters of Madame 
de Sevigne, are now esteemed the most accomplished model of 
a familiar correspondence. They turn indeed very much upon 
trifles, the incidents of the day, and the news of the town ; and 
they are overloaded with extravagant compliments, and expres- 
sions of fondness, to her favourite daughter ; but withal, they 
show such perpetual sprightliness, they contain such easy and 
varied narration, and so many strokes of the most lively and 
beautiful painting, perfectly free from any affectation, that they 
are justly entitled to high praise. The Letters of Lady Mary 
Wortly Montague are not unworthy of being named after those 
of Madame de Sevigne. They have much of the French ease and 
vivacity ; and retain more the character of agreeable epistolary 
style, than perhaps any letters which have appeared in the 
English language. 

There remains to be treated of, another species of composi- 
tion in prose, which comprehends a very numerous, though, in 
general, a very insignificant class of writings, known by the 
name of romances and novels. These may, at first view, seem 
too insignificant to deserve that any particular notice should be 
taken of them. But I cannot be of this opinion. Mr. Fletcher 
of Salton, in one of his tracts, quotes it as the saying of a wise 
man, that, give him the making of all the ballads of a nation, he 



50Q LECTURE XX XV 11. 

would allow any one that pleased to make their laws. The say- 
ing was founded on reflection and good sense, and is applicable 
to the subject now before us. For any kind of writing, how 
trifling soever in appearance, that obtains a general currency, 
and especially that early preoccupies the imagination of the 
youtli of both sexes, must demand particular attention. Its in- 
influence is likely to be considerable, both on the morals and 
taste of a nation. 

In fact, fictitious histories might be employed for very useful 
purposes. They furnish one of the best channels for conveying 
instruction, for painting human life and manners, for showing 
the errors into which we are betrayed by our passions, for ren- 
dering virtue amiable and vice odious. The effect of well con- 
trived stories, towards accomplishing these purposes, is stronger 
than any effect that can be produced by simple and naked in- 
struction ; and hence Ave find, that the wisest men in all ages 
have more or less employed fables and fictions, as the vehicles 
of knowledge. These have ever been the basis of both epic and 
dramatic poetry. It is not, therefore, the nature of this sort of 
writing, considered in itself, but the faulty manner of its execu- 
tion, that can expose it to any contempt. Lord Bacon takes 
notice of our taste for fictitrous history, as a proof of the great- 
ness and dignity of the human mind. He observes very in- 
geniously, that the objects of this world, and the common train 
of affairs which we behold going on in it, do not fill the mind, 
nor give it entire satisfaction. We seek for something that shall 
expand the mind in a greater degree : we seek for more heroic 
and illustrious deeds, for more diversified and surprising events, 
for a more splendid order of things, a more regular and just 
distribution of rewards and punishments, than what we find 
here : because we meet not with these in true history, we have 
recourse to fictitious. We create worlds according to our fancy, 
in order to gratify our capacious desires : " Accommodando," 
says that great philosopher, " rerum simulachra ad animi desL 
deria, non submittendo animum rebus, quod ratio facit, et his- 
toria." Let us then, since the subject wants neither dignity 
nor use, make a few observations on the rise and progress of 
fictitious history, and the different forms it has assumed in dif- 
ferent countries. 

In all countries we find its origin very ancient. The genius 
of the Eastern nations, in particular, was from the earliest times 

* Accommodating the appearances of things to the desires of the mind, not 
bringing down the mind, as history and philosophy do, to the course of events." 



FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 507 

much turned towards invention, and the love of fiction. Their 
divinity, their philosophy, and their politics, were clothed in 
fables and parables. The Indians, the Persians, and Arabians, 
were all famous for their tales. The Arabian Nights' Entertain- 
ments are the production of a romantic invention, but of a rich 
and amusing imagination ; exhibiting a singular and curious dis- 
play of manners and characters, and beautified with a very hu- 
mane morality. Among the ancient Greeks, we hear of the 
Ionian and Milesian Tales ; but they have now perished, and, 
from any account that we have of them, appear to have been of 
the loose and wanton kind. Some fictitious histories yet remain, 
that were composed during the decline of the Roman empire, by 
Apuleius, Achilles Tatius, and Heliodorus bishop of Trica, in the 
fourth century ; but none of them are considerable enough to 
merit particular criticisms. 

During the dark ages, this sort of writing assumed a new 
and very singular form, and for a long while made a great figure 
in the world. The martial spirit of those nations, among whom 
the feudal government prevailed; the establishment of single 
combat, as an allowed method of deciding causes both of justice 
and honour; the appointment of champions in the cause of 
women, who could not maintain their own rights by the sword ; 
together with the institution of military tournaments, in which 
different kingdoms vied with one another, gave rise, in those 
times, to that marvellous system of chivalry, which is one of the 
most singular appearances in the history of mankind. Upon 
this were founded those romances of knight-errantry, which 
carried an ideal chivalry to a still more extravagant height than 
it had risen in fact. There was displayed in them a new and 
very wonderful sort of world, hardly bearing any resemblance 
to the world in which we dwell. Not only knights setting forth 
to redress all manner of wrongs, but in every page, magicians, 
dragons, and giants, invulnerable men, winged horses, en- 
chanted armour, and enchanted castles ; adventures absolutely 
incredible, yet suited to the gross ignorance of these ages, and 
to the legends, and superstitious notions concerning magic and 
necromancy, which then prevailed. This merit they had, of 
being writings of the highly moral and heroic kind. Their' 
knights were patterns not of courage merely, but of religion, 
generosity, courtesy, and fidelity ; and the heroines were no 
less distinguished for modesty, delicacy, and the utmost dignity 
of manners. 

These were the first compositions that received the name of 



508 LECTURE XXXVII. 

: omances. The origin of this name is traced, by Mr. Huet, the 
learned bishop of Avranche, to the Provencal trabadours, a sort 
of story-tellers and bards in the county of Provence, where 
there subsisted some remains of literature and poetry. The 
language which prevailed in that country was a mixture of Latin 
and Gallic, called the Roman or Romance language ; and, as 
the stories of these trabadours were written in that language, 
hence it is said the name of romance, which we now apply to all 
fictitious composition. 

The earliest of these romances, is that which goes under the 
name of Turpin, the archbishop of Rheims, written in the 
eleventh century. The subject is, the achievements of Charle- 
magne and his peers or paladins, in driving the Saracens out of 
France and part of Spain ; the same subject which Ariosto has 
taken for his celebrated poem of Orlando Furioso, which is truly 
a chivalry romance, as extravagant as any of the rest, but partly 
heroic, and partly comic, embellished with the highest graces of 
poetry. The romance of Turpin was followed by Amadis de 
Gaul, and many more of the same stamp. The crusades both 
furnished new matter, and increased the spirit for such writings ; 
the Christians against the Saracens made the common ground- 
work of them ; and from the eleventh to the sixteenth century, 
they continued to bewitch all Europe. In Spain, where the taste 
for this sort of writing had been most greedily caught, the in- 
genious Cervantes, in the beginning of the last century, contri- 
buted greatly to explode it ; and the abolition of tournaments, 
the prohibition of single combat, the disbelief of magic and en- 
chantments, and the change in general of manners throughout 
Europe, began to give a new turn to fictitious composition. 

Then appeared the Astrasa of D'Urfe, the Grand Cyrus, the 
Clelia, and Cleopatra of Madame Scuderi, the Arcadia of Sir 
Philip Sidney, and other grave and stately compositions in the 
same style. These may be considered as forming the second 
stage of romance writing. The heroism and the gallantry, the 
moral and virtuous turn of the chivalry romance, were still pre- 
served ; but the dragons, the necromancers, and the enchanted 
castles, were banished, and some small resemblance to human 
" nature was introduced. Still, however, there was too much of 
the marvellous in them to please an age which now aspired to 
refinement. The characters were discerned to be strained ; the 
style to be swoln ; the adventures incredible ; the books them- 
selves were voluminous and tedious. 

Hence, this sort of composition soon assumed a third form, 
and from magnificent heroic romance, dwindled down to tne 






FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 



500 



familiar novel. These novels, both in France and England, 
during the age of Louis XIV. and king Charles II. were in 
general of a trifling nature, without the appearance of moral 
tendency, or useful instruction. Since that time, however, 
somewhat better has been attempted, and a degree of reforma- 
tion introduced into the spirit of novel writing. Imitations 
of life and character have been made their principal object. Re- 
lations have been professed to be given of the behaviour of 
persons in particular interesting situations, such as may actually 
occur in life ; by means of which, what is laudable or defective 
in character and conduct, may be pointed out, and placed in 
an useful light. Upon this plan, the French have produced some 
compositions of considerable merit. Gil Bias, by Le Sage, is 
a book full of good sense, and instructive knowledge of the 
world. The works of Marivaux, especially his Marianne, disco- 
ver great refinement of thought, great penetration into human 
nature, and paint with a very delicate pencil, some of the nicest 
shades and features in the distinction of characters. The Nou- 
velle Heloise of Rousseau is a production of a very singular 
kind : in many of the events which are related, improbable and 
unnatural ; in some of the details tedious, and for some of the 
scenes which are described justly blameable ; but withal, for the 
power of eloquence, for tenderness of sentiment, for ardour of 
passion, entitled to rank among the highest productions of fic- 
titious history 

In this kind of writing we are, it must be confessed, in 
Great Britain, inferior to the French. We neither relate so 
agreeably, nor .draw characters with so much delicacy ; yet we 
are not without some performances which discover the strength 
of the British genius. No fiction, in any language, was ever 
better supported than the Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. 
While it is carried on with that appearance of truth and simpli- 
city, which takes a strong hold of the imagination of all readers, 
it suggests, at the same time, very useful instruction ; by show- 
ing how much the native powers of man may be exerted for 
surmounting the difficulties of any external situation. Mr. 
Fielding's novels are highly distinguished for their humour ; a 
humour which, if not of the most refined and delicate kind, is 
original, and peculiar to himself. The characters which he draws 
are lively and natural, and marked with the strokes of a bold 
pencil. The general scope of his stories is favourable to hu- 
manity and goodness of heart ; and in Tom Jones, his greatest 
work, the artful conduct of the fable, and the subserviency of 



fiction 



510 LECTURE XXXVIU. 

all the incidents to the winding up of the whole, deserve much 
praise. The most moral of all our novel writers is Richardson, 
the author of Clarissa, a writer of excellent intentions, and of 
very considerable capacity and genius ; did he not possess the 
unfortunate talent, of spinning out pieces of amusement into an 
immeasurable length. The trivial performances which daily ap- 
pear in public under the title of lives, adventures, and histories, 
by anonymous authors, if they be often innocent, yet are most 
commonly insipid ; and though in the general it ought to be ad- 
mitted that characteristical novels, formed upon nature and upon 
life, without extravagance and without licentiousness, might fur- 
nish an agreeable and useful entertainment to the mind ; yet, 
considering the manner in which these writings have been for the 
most part conducted, it must also be confessed, that they of- 
tener tend to dissipation and idleness, than to any good purpose. 
Let us now, therefore, make our retreat from these regions of 



LECTURE XXXVIII. - 

NATURE OF POETRY— ITS ORIGIN AND PROGRESS- 
VERSIFICATION. 

I HAVE now finished my observations on the different 
kinds of writing in prose. What remains is, to treat of poetical 
composition. Before entering on the consideration of any of its 
particular kinds, I design this lecture as an introduction to the 
subject of poetry in general ; wherein I shall treat of its nature, 
give an account of its origin, and make some observations on 
versification, or poetical numbers. 

Our first inquiry must be, What is poetry? and wherein 
does it differ from prose ? The answer to this question is not so 
easy as might at first be imagined ; and critics have differed 
and disputed much, concerning the proper .definition of poetry. 
Some have made its essence to consist in fiction^ and support 
their opinion by the authority of Aristotle and Plato. But this 
is certainly too limited a definition ; for though fiction may 
have a great share in many poetical compositions, yet many 
subjects of poetry may not be feigned ; as where the poet 
describes objects which actually exist, or pours forth the real 
sentiments of his own heart. Others have made the charac- 



NATURE OF POETRY. 51 1 

teristic of poetry to lie in imitation. But this is altogether 
loose ; for several other arts imitate as well as poetry ; and 
an imitation of human manners and characters may be car- 
ried on in the humblest prose, no less than in the more lofty 
poetic strain. 

The most just and comprehensive definition which, I think, 
can be given of poetry, is, " that it is the language of passion, 
or of enlivened imagination, formed, most commonly, into regu- 
lar numbers." The historian, the orator, the philosopher, ad- 
dress themselves, for the most part, primarily to the understand- 
ing : their direct aim is to inform, to persuade, or to instruct. 
But the primary aim of a poet is to please, aad to move ; and, 
therefore, it is to the imagination, and the passions, that he 
speaks. He may, and he ought to have it in his view, to instruct 
and to reform ; but it is indirectly, and by pleasing and moving, 
that he accomplishes this end. His mind is supposed to be ani- 
mated by some interesting object which fires his imagination, or 
engages his passions ; and which, of course, communicates to 
his style a peculiar elevation suited to his ideas ; very different 
from that mode of expression, which is natural to the mind in its 
calm ordinary state. I have added to my definition, that this 
language of passion, or imagination, is formed, most commonly, 
into regular numbers ; because, though versification be, in gene- 
ral, the exterior distinction of poetry, yet there are some forms 
of verse so loose and familiar, as to be hardly distinguishable 
from prose ; such as the verse of Terence's Comedies ; and 
there is also a species of prose, so measured in its cadence, and 
so much raised in its tone, as to approach very near to poetical 
numbers ; such as the Telemachus of Fenelon ; and the English 
translation of Ossian. The truth is, verse and prose, on some 
occasions, run into one another, like light and shade. It is 
hardly possible to determine the exact limit where eloquence 
ends, and poetry begins ; nor is there any occasion for being 
very precise about the boundaries, as long as the nature of each 
is understood. These are the minutiae of criticism, concerning 
which, frivolous writers are always disposed to squabble ; but 
which deserve not any particular discussion. The truth and 
justness of the definition, which I have given of poetry, will 
appear more fully from the account which I am now to give 
of its origin, and which will tend to throw light on much 
of what I am afterwards to deliver, concerning its various 
kinds. 

The Greeks, ever fond of attributing to their own nation the 



512 LECTURE XXXVIII. 

invention of all sciences and arts, have ascribed the origin of 
poetry to Orpheus, Linus, and Musoeiis. There were, perhaps, 
such persons as these, who were the first distinguished bards 
in the Grecian countries. But long before such names were 
heard of, and among nations where they were never known, 
poetry existed. It is a great error to imagine, that poetry and 
music are arts which belong only to polished nations. They 
have their foundation in the nature of man, and belong to all na- 
tions, and to all ages ; though, like other arts founded in na- 
ture, they have been more cultivated, and, from a concurrence 
of favourable circumstances, carried to greater perfection in 
some countries, than in others. In order to explore the rise of 
poetry, we must have recourse to the deserts and the wilds ; we 
must go back to the age of hunters and of shepherds ; to the 
highest antiquity ; and to the simplest form of manners among 
mankind. 

It has been often said, and the concurring voice of all antiquity 
affirms, that poetry is older than prose. But in what sense this 
seemingly strange paradox holds true, has not always been well 
understood. There never, certainly, was any period of society 
in which men conversed together in poetical numbers. It was 
in very humble and scanty prose, as we may easily believe, that 
the first tribes carried on intercourse among themselves, re- 
lating to the wants and necessities of life. But from the very 
beginning of society, there were occasions on which they met 
together for feasts, sacrifices, and public assemblies ; and on all 
such occasions, it is well known, that music, song, and dance, 
made their principal entertainment. It is chiefly in America, 
that we have had the opportunity of being made acquainted with 
men in their savage state. We learn from the particular and 
concurring accounts of travellers, that among all the nations of 
that vast continent, especially among the northern tribes, with 
whom we have had most intercourse, music and song are, at all 
their meetings, carried on with an incredible degree of enthusi- 
asm ; that the chiefs of the tribe are those who signalize them- 
selves most on such occasions ; that it is in songs they celebrate 
their religious rites ; that by these they lament their public and 
private calamities, the death of friends, or the loss of warriors , 
express their joy on their victories ; celebrate the great actions 
of their nation, and their heroes ; excite each other to perform 
brave exploits in war, or to suffer death and torments with un 
shaken constancy 

Here then we see the first beginnings of poetic composition, 



ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. 513 

in those rude effusions, which the enthusiasm of fancy or passion 
suggested to untaught men, when roused by interesting events, 
and by their meeting together in public assemblies. Two par- 
ticulars would early distinguish this language of song, from that 
in which they conversed on the common occurrences of life ; 
namely, an unusual arrangement of words, and the employment 
of bold figures of speech. It would invert words, or change 
them from that order in which they are commonly placed, to 
that which most suited the train in which they rose in the speaker's 
imagination ; or which was most accommodated to the cadence 
of the passion by which he was moved. Under the influence 
too of any strong emotion, objects do not appear to us such as 
they really are, but such as passion makes us see them. We 
magnify and exaggerate ; we seek to interest all others in what 
causes our emotion ; we compare the least things to the greatest ; 
we call upon the absent as well as the present, and even address 
ourselves to things inanimate. Hence, in congruity with those 
various movements of the mind, arise those turns of expression, 
which we now distinguish by the learned names of hyperbole 
prosopopoeia, simile, &c. but which are no other than the na- 
tive original language of poetry among the most barbarous 
nations. ' 

Man is both a poet and a musician, by nature. The same 
impulse which prompted the enthusiastic poetic style, prompted 
a certain melody, or modulation of sound, suited to the emo- 
tions of joy or grief, of admiration, love, or anger. There 
is a power in sound, which, partly from nature, partly from 
habit and association, makes such pathetic impressions on the 
fancy, as delight even the most wild barbarians. Music and 
poetry, therefore, had the same rise : they were prompted by 
the same occasions ; they were united in song ; and as long 
as they continued united, they tended, without doubt, mutually 
to heighten and exalt each other's power. The first poets sung 
their own verses : and hence the beginning of what we call 
versification, or words arranged in a more artful order than 
prose, so as to be suited to some tune or melody. The liberty 
of transposition, or inversion, which the poetic style, as I ob- 
served, would naturally assume, made it easier to form the 
words into some sort of numbers that fell in with the music 
of the song. Very harsh and uncouth, we may easily believe, 
these numbers would be at first. But the pleasure was felt ; 
it was studied and versification, by degrees, passed into 
an art. 

9. T 



514 LECTURE XXXVIII. 

It appears from what has been said, that the first compo- 
sitions which were either recorded by writing, or transmitted by- 
tradition, could be no other than poetical compositions. No 
other but these could draw the attention of men in their rude 
uncivilized state. Indeed, they know no other. Cool reasoning 
and plain discourse had no power to attract savage tribes, ad- 
dicted only to hunting and war. There was nothing that could 
either rouse the speaker to pour himself forth, or draw the 
crowd to listen, but the high powers of passion, of music, and 
of song. This vehicle, therefore, and no other, could be em- 
ployed by chiefs and legislators, when they meant to instruct 
or to animate their tribes. There is, likewise, a further reason 
why such compositions only could be transmitted to posterity ; 
because, before writing was invented, songs only could last, 
and be remembered. The ear gave assistance to the memory, 
by the help of numbers ; fathers repeated and sung them to 
their children ; and by this oral tradition of national ballads, 
were conveyed all the historical knowledge, and all the instruc- 
tion, of the first ages. 

The earliest accounts which tiistory gives us concerning all 
nations, bear testimony to these facts. In the first ages of 
Greece, priests, philosophers, and statesmen, all delivered their 
instructions in poetry. Apollo, Orpheus, and Amphion, their 
most ancient bards, are i*epresented as the first tamers of man- 
kind, the first founders of law and civilization. Minos and 
Thales sung to the lyre the laws which they composed ;* and till 
the age immediately preceding that of Herodotus, history had 
appeared in no other form than that of poetical tales. 

In the same manner, among all other nations, poets and 
songs are the first objects that make their appearance. Among 
the Scythian or Gothic nations, many of their kings and leaders 
were scalders, or poets : and it is from their Runie songs that 
the most early writers of their history, such as Saxo-Gramma- 
ticus, acknowledge that they had derived their chief informa- 
tion. Among the Celtic tribes, in Gaul, Britain, and Ireland, 
we know in what admiration their bards were held, and how 
great influence they possessed over the people. They were both 
poets and musicians, as all the first poets, in every country, 
were. They were always near the person of the chief or so- 
vereign ; they recorded all his great exploits ; they were em- 
ployed as the ambassadors between contending tribes, and their 
persons were held sacred 

* Strabo, lib. x. 






OJilGlN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. 513 

From this deduction it follows, that as we have reason to 
look for poems and songs among the antiquities of all countries, 
so we may expect, that in the strain of these there will be a 
remarkable resemblance, during the primitive periods of every 
country. The occasions of their being composed, are every 
where nearly the same. The praises of gods and heroes, the 
celebration of famed ancestors, the recital of martial deeds, songs 
of victory, and songs of lamentation over the misfortunes and 
death of their countrymen, occur among all nations ; and the 
same enthusiasm and fire, the same wild and irregular, but ani- 
mated composition, concise and glowing style, bold and extra- 
vagant figures of speech, are the general distinguishing charac- 
ters of all the most ancient and original poetry. That strong hy- 
perbolical manner which we have been long accustomed to call the 
oriental manner of poetry (because some of the earliest poetical 
productions came to us from the East), is in truth no more orien^ 
tal than occidental ; it is characteristical of an age rather than of 
a country ; and belongs, in some measure, to all nations at that 
period which first gives rise to music and to song. Mankind 
never resemble each other, so much as they do in the beginnings 
of society. Its subsequent revolutions give birth to the princi- 
pal distinctions of character among nations, and divert into 
channels widely separated, that current of human genius and 
manners, which descends originally from one spring. 

Diversity of climate, and of manner of living, will, however> 
occasion some diversity in the strain of the first poetry of na- 
tions ; chiefly, according as those nations are of a more fero- 
cious, or of a more gentle spirit ; and according as they advance 
faster or slower in the arts of civilization. Thus we find all the 
remains of the ancient Gothic poetry remarkably fierce, and 
breathing nothing but slaughter and blood ; while the Peruvian 
and the Chinese songs turned, from the earliest times, upon 
milder subjects. The Celtic poetry, in the days of Ossian, 
though chiefly of the martial kind, yet had attained a consider- 
able mixture of tenderness and refinement ; in consequence of 
the long cultivation of poetry among the Celtoe, by means of a 
series and succession of bards which had been established for 
ages. So Lucan informs us : 

Vos quoque, qui fortes aminos belloque peremptos 
Laudibus in Iongum, vates, diffunditis sevum, 
Plnrima securi fudistis carmina Bardi.* — Lib. i. 449. 

* " Yon too, ye bards, whom sacred raptures fire 
To cliaunt your heroes to your country's lyre, 

2l 2 






516 LECTURE XXXVIII. 

Among the Grecian nations, their early poetry appears to 
have soon received a philosophical cast, from what we are in- 
formed concerning the subjects of Orpheus, Linus, and Mu- 
saeus, who treated of creation and of chaos, of the generation 
of the world, and of the rise of things ; and we know that the 
Greeks advanced sooner to philosophy, and proceeded with 
a quicker pace in all the arts of refinement, than most other 
nations. 

The Arabians and the Persians have always been the great- 
est poets of the East ; and among them, as among other nations, 
poetry was the earliest vehicle of all their learning and instruc- 
tion.* The ancient Arabs, we are informed,f valued themselves 
much on their metrical compositions, which were of two sorts ; 
the one they compared to loose pearls, and the other to pearls 
strung. In the former, the sentences, or verses, were without 
connexion, and their beauty arose from the elegance of the ex- 
pression, and the acuteness of the sentiment. The moral doc- 
trines of the Persians were generally comprehended in such in- 
dependent proverbial apophthegms, formed into verse. In this 
respect they bear a considerable resemblance to the Proverbs of 
Solomon : a great part of which book consists of unconnected 
poetry, like the loose pearls of the Arabians. The same form 
of composition appears also in the book of Job. The Greeks 
seem to have been the first who introduced a more regular 
structure, and closer connexion of parts, into their poetical 
writings. 

During the infancy of poetry all the different kinds of it lay 
confused, and were mingled in the same composition, according 
as inclination, enthusiasm, or casual incidents, directed the poet's 
strain. In the progress of society and arts, they began to 
assume those different regular forms, and to be distinguished by 
those different names under which we now know them. But 
in the first rude state of poetical effusions, we can easily discern 
the seeds and beginnings of all the kinds of regular poetry. 
Odes and hymns of every sort, would naturally be among the 
first compositions ; according as the bards were moved by 
religious feelings, by exultation, resentment, love, or any 



Who consecrate, in your immortal strain, 

Brave patriot souls in righteous battle slain ; 

Securely now the useful task renew. 

And noblest themes in deathless songs pursue." — Rowe. 

• Vid. Voyages de Chardin, chap, de la Poe'sie des Persans. 
f Vid. Preliminary Discourse to Sale's Translation of the Koran. 



ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. 517 

other warm sentiment, to pour themselves forth in song. Plain- 
tive or elegiac poetry would as naturally arise from lamentations 
over their deceased friends. The recital of the achievements of 
their heroes, and their ancestors, gave birth to what we now 
call epic poetry ; and as not content with simply reciting these, 
they would infallibly be led, at some of their public meetings, 
to represent them, by introducing different bards speaking in the 
character of their heroes, and answering each other, we find in 
this the first outlines of tragedy, or dramatic writing. 

None of these kinds of poetry, however, were in the first 
ages of society properly distinguished or separated, as they are 
now, from each other. Indeed, not only were the different 
kinds of poetry then mixed together, but all that we now call 
etters or composition of any kind, was then blended in one 
jriass. At first, history, eloquence, and poetry, were all the 
same. Whoever wanted to move or to persuade, to inform or to 
entertain his countrymen and neighbours, whatever was the 
subject, accompanied his sentiment and tales with the melody 
of song. This was the case in.' that period of society, when the 
character and occupations of the husbandman and the builder, 
the warrior and the statesman, were united in one person. 
When the progress of society brought on a separation of the 
different arts and professions of civil life, it led also by degrees 
to a separation of the different literary provinces from each 
other. 

The art of writing was in process of time invented ; records 
of past transactions began to be kept ; men, occupied with the 
subjects of policy and useful arts, wished now to be instructed 
and informed, as well as moved. They reasoned and reflected 
upon the affairs of life ; and were interested by what was real, 
not fabulous, in past transactions. The historian, therefore,, 
now laid aside the buskins of poetry; he wrote in prose, and 
attempted to give a faithful and judicious relation of former 
events. The philosopher addressed himself chiefly to the un- 
derstanding. The orator studied to persuade by reasoning, and, 
retained more or less of the ancient passionate and glowing 
style, according as it was conducive to his purpose. Poetry 
became now a separate art, calculated chiefly to please, and con- 
fined generally to such subjects as related to the imagination and 
passions. Even its earliest companion, music, was in a great 
measure divided from it. 

These separations brought all the literary arts into a more 
regular form, and contributed to the exact and accurate culti- 



..1 i LECTURE XXX VIII. 

vdtioa of each. Poetry, however, in its ancient original con- 
dition, was perhaps more vigorous than it is in its modern state. 
It included, then, the whole burst of the human mind ; the whole 
exertion of its imaginative faculties. It spoke then the language 
of passion, and no other ; for to passion it owed its birth. 
Prompted and inspired by objects which to him seemed great, 
by events which interested his country or his friends, the early 
bard arose and sung. He sung indeed in wild and disorderly 
strains ; but they were the native effusions of his heart ; they 
were the ardent conceptions of admiration or resentment, of 
sorrow or friendship, which he poured forth. It is no wonder, 
therefore, that in the rude and artless strain of the first poetry 
of all nations, we should often find somewhat that captivates and 
transports the mind. In after-ages, when poetry became a re- 
gular art, studied for reputation and for gain, authors began to 
afl'ect what they did not feel. Composing coolly in their closets, 
they endeavoured to imitate passion, rather than to express 
it ; they tried to force their imagination into raptures, or 
to supply the defect of native warmth, by those artificial 
ornaments which might give composition a splendid appear- 
ance. 

The separation of music from poetry, produced consequen- 
ces not favourable in some respects to poetry, and in many 
respects hurtful to music* As long as they remained united, 
music enlivened and animated poetry, and poetry gave force and 
expression to musical sound. The music of that early period 
was, beyond doubt, extremely simple ; and must have consisted 
chiefly of such pathetic notes, as the voice could adapt to the 
words of the song. Musical instruments, such as flutes, and 
pipes, and a lyre with a very few strings, appear to have been 
early invented among some nations ; but no more was intended 
by these instruments, than simply to accompany the voice, and to 
heighten the melody of song. The poet's strain was always 
heard ; and from many circumstances, it appears, that among 
the ancient Greeks, as well as among other nations the bard 
sung his verses, and played upon his harp or lyre at the same 
time. In this state the art of music was, when it produced all 
those great effects of which we read so much in -ancient history. 
And certain it is, that from simple music only, and from music 
•-** ^ >-» accompaniedC'jvith "-verse or^ song, we are to look for strong 
expression, and powerful influence over the human mind. 

* See Dr. Brown's Dissertation on the Rise, Union, and Separation of Poeinj 

arid Musk. 



ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. 519 

When instrumental music came to be studied as a separate art, 
divested of the poet's song, and formed into the artificial and 
intricate combinations of harmony, it lost all its ancient power 
of inflaming the hearers with strong emotions ; and sunk into an 
art of mere amusement, among polished and luxurious nations 

Still, however, poetry preserves, in all countries, some re- 
mains of its first and original connection with music. By being 
uttered in song, it was formed into numbers, or into an artificial 
arrangement of words and syllables, very different in different 
countries ; but such as, to the inhabitants of each, seemed most 
melodious and agreeable in sound. Whence arises that great 
characteristic of poetry which we now call verse ; a subject 
which comes next to be treated of. 

It is a subject of a curious nature ; but as I am sensible, 
that, were I to pursue it as far as my inclination leads, it would 
give rise to discussions, which the greater part of readers would 
consider as minute, I shall confine myself to a few observations 
upon English versification. 

Nations, whose language and pronunciation were of a musical 
kind, rested their versification chiefly upon the quantities, that 
is, the length or shortness of their syllables. Others, who did 
not make the quantities of their syllables to be so distinctly 
perceived in pronouncing them, rested the melody of their verse 
upon the number of syllables it contained, upon the proper dis- 
position of accents and pauses in it, and frequently upon that 
return of corresponding sounds, which we call rhyme. The 
former was the case with the Greeks and Romans, the latter is 
the case with us, and with most modern nations. Among the 
Greeks and Romans, every syllable, or the far greatest number 
at least, was known to have a fixed and determined quantity ; 
and their manner of pronouncing rendered this so sensible to 
the ear, that a long syllable was counted precisely equal in time 
to two short ones. Upon this principle, the number of syllables 
contained in their hexameter verse was allowed to vary. It may 
extend to seventeen ; it can contain, when regular, no fewer 
than thirteen ; but the musical time was, notwithstanding, pre- 
precisely the same in every hexameter verse, and was always 
equal to that of twelve long syllables. In order to ascertain the 
regular time of every verse, and the proper mixture and succes- 
sion of long and short syllables which ought to compose it, 
were invented, what the grammarians call metrical feet, dactyles, 
spondees, iambus, &c. By these measures was tried the accu- 
racy of composition in every line, and whether it was so con- 



520 LECTURE X XXVII I. 

structed as to complete its proper melody. It was requisite, for 
instance, that the hexameter verse should have the quantity of 
its syllables so disposed, that it could be scanned or measured by 
six metrical feet, which might be either dactyles or spondees (as 
the musical time of both these is the same), with this restriction 
only, that the fifth foot was regularly to be a dactyle, and the 
last a spondee.* 

The introduction of these feet into English verse, would be 
altogether out of place ; for the genius of our language corres- 
ponds not in this respect to the Greek or Latin. I say not, that 
we have no regard to quantity, or to long and short, in pro- 
nouncing. Many words we have, especially our words consist- 
ing of several syllables, where the quantity, or the long and short 
syllables, are invariably fixed ; but great numbers we have, also, 
where the quantity is left altogether loose. This is the case with 
a great part of our words consisting of two syllables, and with 
almost all our monosyllables. In general, the difference made 
between long and short syllables, in our manner of pronouncing 
them, is so very inconsiderable, and so much liberty is left us 
for making them either long or short at pleasure, that mere 
quantity is of very little effect in English versification. The 
only perceptible difference among our syllables, arises from 
some of them being uttered with that stronger percussion of 
voice, which we call accent. This accent does not always make 
the syllable longer, but gives it more force of sound only ; and it 
is upon a certain order and succession of accented and unac- 

• Some writers imagine, that the feet in Latin verse were intended to corres- 
pond to bars in music, and to form musical intervals or distinctions, sensible to 
the ear in the pronunciation of the Hue. Had this been the case, every kind of 
verse must have had a peculiar order of feet appropriated to it. But the com- 
mon prosodies show, that there are several forms of Latin verse which are capa- 
ble of being measured indifferently, by a series of feet of very different kinds. 
For instance, what is called the Asclepedasan verse (in which the first Ode of 
Horace is written) may be scanned either by a spondeus, two choriambuses, and 
a pyrrichius ; or by a spondeus, a dactylus succeeded by a cajsura, and two dac- 
tylites. The common pentameter, and some other forms of verse, admit the like 
varieties; and yet the melody of the verse remains always the same, though it be 
scanned by different feet. This proves that the metrical feet were not sensible 
in the pronunciation of the line, but were intended only to regulate its construc- 
tion; or applied as measures, to try whether the succession of long and short 
syllables was such as suited the melody of the verse : and as feet of different 
kinds could sometimes be applied for this purpose, hence it happened, that some 
forms of verse were capable of being scanned in different ways. For measuring 
the hexameter line, no other feet were found so proper as dactyles and spondees, 
and therefore by these it is uniformly scanned. But no car is sensible of the ter- 
mination of each foot, in reading an hexameter line. From a misapprehension of 
this matter, I apprehend that confusion has sometimes arisen among writers, in 
treating of the prosody both of Latin and of English verse. 



VERSIFICATION. 521 

cented syllables, infinitely more than upon their being long or 
short, that the melody of our verse depends. If we take any of 
Mr. Pope's lines, and in reciting them alter the quantity of the 
syllables, as far as our quantities are sensible, the music of the 
verse will not be much injured : whereas, if we do not accent the 
syllables according as the verse dictates, its melody will be 
totally destroyed.* 

Our English heroic verse is of what may be called an iambic 
structure ; that is, composed of a succession, nearly alternate, 
of syllables, not short and long, but unaccented and accented. 
With regard to the place of these accents, however, some 
liberty is admitted, for the sake of variety. Very often, though 
not always, the line begins with an unaccented syllable ; and 
sometimes, in the course of it, two unaccented syllables follow 
each other. But, in general, there are either five, or four, ac- 
cented syllables in each line. The number of syllables is ten, 
unless where an Alexandrian verse is occasionally admitted. In 
verses not Alexandrian, instances occur where the line appears 
to have more than the limited number. But in such instances, 
I apprehend it will be found that some of the liquid syllables 
are so slurred in pronouncing, as to bring the verse, with respect 
to its effect upon the ear, within the'usual bounds. 

Another essential circumstance in the constitution of. our 
verse, is the caesural pause, which falls towards the middle of 
each line. Some pause of this kind, dictated by the melody, is 
found in the verse of most nations. It is found, as might be 
shown, in the Latin hexameter. In the French heroic verse, it 
is very sensible. That is a verse of twelve syllables, and in 
every line, just after the sixth syllable, there falls regularly and 
indispensably a csesural pause, dividing the line into two equal 
hemistichs. For example, in the first lines of Boileau's Epistle 
to the King : 

Jeune et vaillant heros | dont la haute sagessc 
N'est point le fruit tardif | d'une lente vieillesse, 
Qni seul sans ministre | a l'example des Dieux, 
Soutiens tout par toi-m6me j et vois tous par ses yeux. 

* See this well illustrated in Lord Monboddo's treatise of the Origin and 
Progress of Language, vol. ii. under the head of the Prosody of Language. He 
shows that this is not only the constitution of our own verse, but that by onr 
manner of reading Latin verse, we make its music nearly the same. For we 
certainly do not pronounce it according to the ancient quantities, so as to make 
the musical time of one long syllable equal to two short ones ; but according to a 
succession of accented and unaccented syllables, only mixed in a ratio different 
from that of our own verse. No Roman could possibly understand our pro- 
nunciation. 



a22 LECTURE XXXV11I. 

In this strain all their verses proceed ; the one half of the line 
always answering to the other, and the same chime returning 
incessantly on the ear without intermission or change ; which 
is certainly a defect in their verse, and unfits it so very much 
for the freedom and dignity of heroic poetry. On the other 
hand, it is a distinguishing advantage of our English verse, that 
it allows the pause to be varied through four different syllables 
in the line. The pause may fall after the fourth, the fifth, the 
sixth, or the seventh syllable ; and according as the pause is 
placed after one or other of these syllables, the melody of the 
verse is much changed, its air and cadence are diversified. By 
this means, uncommon richness and variety are added to English 
versification. 

When the pause falls earliest, that is, after the fourth sylla- 
ble, the briskest melody is thereby formed, and the most spirited 
air given to the line. In the following lines of the Rape of the 
Lock, Mr. Pope has, with exquisite propriety, suited the con- 
struction of the verse to the subject : 

On her white breast | a sparkling cross she wore, 
Which Jews might kiss | and infidels adore ; 
Her lively looks | a sprightly mind disclose, 
Quick as her eyes | and as unfix'd as those,- 
Favours to none [ to all she smiles extends, 
Oft she rejects | but never once offends. 

When the pause falls after the fifth syllable, which divides 
the line into two equal portions, the melody is sensibly altered. 
The verse loses that brisk and sprightly air, which it had with 
the former pause, and becomes more smooth, gentle, and flowing. 

Eternal sunshine | of the spotless mind, 

Each prayer accepted j and each wish resign'd. 

When the pause proceeds to follow the sixth syllable, the 
tenor of the music becomes solemn and grave. The verse 
inarches now with a more slow and measured space, than in 
cither of the two former cases. 

The wrath of Peleus' son | the direful spring 
Of all the Grecian woes | O goddess, sing! 

But the grave solemn cadence becomes still more sensible, 
when the pause falls after the seventh syllable, which is the 
nearest place to the end of the line that it can occupy. This 
kind of verse occurs the seldomest, but has a happy effect in 
diversifying the melody. It produces that slow Alexandrian 
air, which is finely suited to a close ; and for this reason, such 






V liRS IFICATION. 523 

Hues almost never occur together, but are used in finishing the 
couplet 

And in the smooth description | murmur still. 
Long loved, adored ideas ! [ all adieu. 

I have taken my examples from verses in rhyme, because in 
these our versification is subjected to the strictest law. As 
blank verse is of a freer kind, and naturally is read with less 
cadence or tone, the pauses in it, and the effect of them, are not 
always so sensible to the ear. It is constructed, however, en- 
tirely upon the same principles, with respect to the place of the 
pause. There are some who, in order to exalt the variety and 
the power of our heroic verse, have maintained that it admits of 
musical pauses, not only after those four syllables where I as- 
signed their place, but after any one syllable in the verse indif- 
ferently, where the sense directs it to be placed. This, in my 
opinion, is the same thing as to maintain that there is no pause 
at all belonging to the natural melody of the verse ; since, ac- 
cording to this notion, the pause is formed entirely to the mean- 
ing, not by the music. But this I apprehend to be contrary 
both to the nature of versification, and to the experience of every 
good ear.* Those certainly are the happiest lines, wherein the 
pause, prompted by the melody, coincides in some degree with 
that of the sense, or at least does not tend to spoil or interrupt 
the meaning. Wherever any opposition between the music and 
the sense chances to take place, I observed before, in treating of 
pronunciation or delivery, that the proper method of reading 
these lines, is to read them according as the sense dictates, neg- 
lecting or slurring the caesural pause ; which renders the line 
less graceful indeed, but, however, does not entirely destroy its 
sound. 

Our blank verse possesses great advantages, and is indeed 
a noble, bold, and disencumbered species of versification. The 
principal defect in rhyme, is the full close which it forces upon 

* In the Italian heroic verse, employed by Tasso in his Gierusalemme, and 
Ariosto in his Orlando, the. pauses are of the same varied nature with those 
which I have shown to belong to English versification, and fall after the same 
four syllables in the line. Marmontel, in his Poetique Francoise, vol. i. p. 2C9, 
takes notice, that this construction of verse is common to the Italians and the 
English ; and defends the uniformity of the French caesural pause upon this 
ground, that the alternation of masculine and feminine rhymes, furnishes suffi- 
cient variety to the French poetry ; whereas the change of movement, occasioned 
by the four different pauses in English and Italian verse, produces, according to 
hiro, too great diversity. On the head of pauses in English versification, see the 
Elements of Criticism, chap, xviii. sect. 4. 



524 LECTURE XXXVIII. 



the ear, at the end of every couplet. Blank verse is freed from 
this ; and allows the lines to run into each other witia &s> great 
liberty as the Latin hexameter permits, perhaps with greater. 
Hence it is particularly suited to subjects of dignity and force, 
which demand more free and manly numbers than rhyme. The 
constraint and strict regularity of rhyme, are unfavourable to 
the sublime, or to the highly pathetic strain. An epic poem, or 
a tragedy, would be fettered and degraded by it. It is best 
adapted to compositions of a temperate strain, where no particu- 
lar vehemence is required in the sentiments, nor great sublimity 
in the style ; such as pastorals, elegies, epistles, satires, &c. 
To these it communicates that degree of elevation which is 
proper, for them ; and without any other assistance sufficiently 
distinguishes the style from prose. He who should write such 
poems in blank verse, would render his work harsh and un- 
pleasing. In order to support a poetical style, he would be 
obliged to affect a pomp of language, unsuitable to the subject. 
Though I join in opinion with those, who think that rhyme 
finds its proper place in the middle, but not in the higher 
regions of poetry, I can by no means join in the invectives 
which some have poured out against it, as if it were a mere bar- 
barous jingling of sounds, fit only for children, and owing to 
nothing but the corruption of taste in the monkish ages. Rhyme 
might indeed be barbarous in Latin or Greek verse, because 
these languages, by the sonorousness of their words, by their 
liberty of transposition and inversion, by their fixed quantities 
and musical pronunciation, could carry on the melody of verse 
without its aid. But it does not follow, that therefore it must be 
barbarous in the English language, which is destitute of thfse 
advantages. Every language has powers and graces, and music 
peculiar to itself; and what is becoming in one, would be ridicu- 
lous in another. Rhyme was barbarous in Latin; and an at- 
tempt to construct English verses after the form of hexameters, 
and pentameters, and sapphics, is as barbarous among us. It is 
not true, that rhyme is merely a monkish invention. On the 
contrary, it has obtained under different forms, in the versifica- 
tion of most known nations. It is found in the ancient poetry of 
the northern nations of Europe ; it is said to be found among the 
Arabs, the Persians, the Indians, and the Americans. This 
shows that there is something in the return of similar sounds, 
which is grateful to the ears of most part of mankind. And if 
any one, after reading Mr. Pope's Rape of the Lock or Eloisa 






PASTORAL POETRY. 525 

to Abelard, shall not admit our rhyme, with all its varieties of 
pauses, to carry both elegance, and sweetness of sound, his ear 
must be pronounced to be of a very peculiar kind. 

The present form of our English heroic rljyme in couplets, 
is a modern species of versification. The measure generally 
used in the days of Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King 
Charles I., was the stanza of eight lines, such as Spenser em- 
ploys, borrowed from the Italian ; a measure very constrained 
and artificial. Waller was the first who brought couplets into 
vogue ; and Dryden afterwards established the usage. Waller 
first smoothed our verse ; Dryden perfected it. Mr. Pope's 
versification has a peculiar character. It is flowing and smooth 
in the highest degree ; far more laboured and correct than 
that of any who went before him. He introduced one con- 
siderable change into heoric verse, by totally throwing aside 
the triplets, or three lines rhyming together, in which Mr. 
Dryden abounded. Dryden's versification, however, has very 
great merit ; and, like all his productions, has much spirit, 
mixed with carelessness. If not so smooth and correct as 
Pope's, it is however more varied and easy. He subjects 
himself less to the rule of closing the sense with the coup- 
let : and frequently takes the liberty of making his couplets 
run into one another, with somewhat of the freedom of blank 
verse. 



LECTURE XXXTX. 

PASTORAL POETRY— LYRIC POETRY. 

IN the last lecture, I gave an account of the rise and 
progress of poetry, and made some observations on the na- 
ture of English versification. I now proceed to treat of the 
chief kinds of Poetical Composition ; and of the critical rules that 
relate to them. I shall follow that order which is most simple 
and natural ; beginning with the lesser forms of poetry, and 
ascending from them to the epic and dramatic, as the most 
dignified. This lecture shall be employed on Pastoral and Lyric 
Poetry. 

Though I begin with the consideration of Pastoral Poetry, 
it is not because I consider it as one of the earliest forms of 
poetical composition. On the coutrary, I am of opinion that it 






526 LECTURE XXXIX. 

was not cultivated as a distinct species, or subject of writing, 
until society had advanced in refinement. Most authors have 
indeed indulged the fancy, that because the life which mankind 
first led was rural, therefore their first poetry was pastoral, or 
employed in the celebration of rural scenes and objects. I make 
no doubt, that it would borrow many of its images and allusions 
from those natural objects, with which men were best acquainted ; 
but I am persuaded that the calm and tranquil scenes of rural 
felicity were not, by any means, the first objects which inspired 
that strain of composition which we now call poetry. It was 
inspired, in the first periods of every nation, by events and ob- 
jects which roused men's passions ; or, at least, awakened their 
wonder and admiration. The actions of their gods and heroes, 
their own exploits in war, the successes or misfortunes of their 
countrymen and friends, furnished the first themes to the bards 
of every country. What was of a pastoral kind in their compo- 
sitions, was incidental only. They did not think of choosing for 
their theme, the tranquillity and the pleasures of the country, as 
long as these were daily and familiar objects to them. It was not 
till men had begun to be assembled in great cities, after the dis- 
tinctions of rank and station were formed, and the bustle of 
courts and large societies was known, that pastoral poetry as- 
sumed its present form. Men then began to look back upon the 
more simple and innocent life, which their forefathers led, or 
which, at least, they fancied them to have led : they looked back 
upon it with pleasure ; and in those rural scenes, and pastoral 
occupations, imagining a degree of felicity to take place, su- 
perior to what they now enjoyed, conceived the idea of 
celebrating it in poetry. It was in the court of King Ptolemy 
that Theocritus wrote the first pastorals with which we are ac- 
quainted ; and, in the court of Augustus, he was imitated by 
Virgil. 

But whatever may have been the origin of pastoral poetry, 
it is, undoubtedly, a natural, and very agreeable form of poeti- 
cal composition. It recals to our imagination, those gay scenes, 
and pleasing views of nature, which commonly are the delight of 
our childhood and youth ; and to which, in more advanced years, 
the greatest part of men recur with pleasure. It exhibits to us 
a life, with which we are accustomed to associate the ideas of 
peace, of leisure, and of innocence ; and, therefore, we readily 
set open our heart to such representations as promise to banish 
from our thoughts the cares of the world, and to transport us 
into calm Elysian regions. At the same time, no subject seems 



PASTORAL POETRY. 627 

to be more favourable to poetry. Amidst rural objects, nature 
presents, on all hands, the finest field for description ; and no- 
thing appears to flow more, of its own accord, into poetical 
numbers, than rivers and mountains, meadows and hills, flocks 
and trees, and shepherds void of care. Hence, this species of 
poetry has, at all times, allured many readers, and excited 
many writers. But, notwithstanding the advantages it possesses, 
it will appear, from what I have further to observe upon it, that 
there is hardly any species of poetry which is more difficult to 
be carried to perfection, or in which fewer writers have ex- 
celled. 

Pastoral life may be considered in three different views ; 
either such as it now actually is ; when the state of shepherds is 
reduced to be a mean, servile, and laborious state ; when their 
employments are become disagreeable, and their ideas gross and 
iow : or such as we may suppose it once to have been, in the 
more early and simple ages, when it was a life of ease and abun- 
dance ; when the wealth of men consisted chiefly in flocks and 
herds, and the shepherd, though unrefined in his manners, was 
respectable in his state : or, lastly, such as it never was, and 
never can in reality be, when, to the ease, innocence, and sim- 
plicity of the early ages, we attempt to add the polished taste, 
and cultivated manners, of modern times. Of these three states, 
the first is too gross and mean, the last too refined and unnatural, 
to be made the ground-work of pastoral poetry. Either of these 
extremes is a rock upon which the poet will split, if he approach 
too near it. We shall be disgusted if he give us too much 
of the servile employments and low ideas of actual peasants, as 
Theocritus is censured for having sometimes done ; and if, like 
some of the French and Italian writers of pastorals, he makes his 
shepherds discourse as if they were courtiers and scholars, he 
then retains the name only, but wants the spirit of pastoral 
poetry. 

He must, therefore, keep in the middle station between these. 
He must form to himself the idea of a rural state, such as in cer- 
tain periods of society may have actually taken place, where 
there was ease, equality, and innocence ; where shepherds were 
gay and agreeable, without being learned or refined ; and plain 
and artless, without being gross and wretched. The great charm 
of pastoral poetry arises from the view which it exhibits of the 
tranquillity and happiness of a rural life* This pleasing illusion, 
therefore, the poet must carefully maintain. He must display 



528 LECTURE XXXIX. 

to us, all that is agreeable in that state, but hide whatever is 
displeasing.* Let lain paint its simplicity and innocence to the 
full ; but cover its rudeness and misery. Distresses, indeed, and 
anxieties, he may attribute to it ; for it would be perfectly un- 
natural to suppose any condition of human life to be without 
them ; but they must be of such a nature, as uot to shock the 
fancy with any thing peculiarly disgusting in the pastoral life. 
The shepherd may well be afflicted for the displeasure of his 
mistress, or for the loss of a favourite lamb. It is a sufficient 
recommendation of any state, to have only such evils as these to 
deplore. In short, it is the pastoral life somewhat embellished 
and beautified, at least seen on its fairest side only, that the 
poet ought to present to us. But let him take care, that, in 
embellishing nature, he do not altogether disguise her ; or 
pretend to join with rural simplicity and happiness, such im- 
provements as are unnatural and foreign to it. If it be not 
exactly real life which he presents to us, it must, however, be 
somewhat that resembles it. This, in my opinion, is the ge- 
neral idea of pastoral poetry. But, in order to examine it more 
particularly, let us consider, first, the scenery ; next, the charac- 
ters ; and lastly, the subjects and actions which this sort of 
composition should exhibit. 

As to the scene, it is clear that it must always be laid in the 
country, and much of the poet's merit depends on describing it 
beautifully. Virgil is, in this respect, excelled by Theocritus, 

• In the following beautiful lines of the first eclogue, Virgil has, in the true 
spirit of a pastoral poet, brought together as agreeable an assemblage of images of 
rural pleasures as can any where be found : 

Fortunate senex ! hie, inter flum'ma nota 

Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum. 

Hinc tibi, quae semper vicino ab limite sepes, 

Hyblaeis apibus florem depasta salicti, 

Saepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro, 

Hinc alta sub rupc canet frond ator ad auras ; 

Nee tamen interea raucae, tua cura, palumbes, 

Nee gemere aeria cessabit turtur ab ulmo. — v. 52. 

" Happy old man ! here, mid th* accustom'd streams 
And sacred springs, you'll shun the scorching beams ; 
While from yon willow fence, thy pasture's bound, 
The bees that suck their flowery stores around 
Shall sweetly m'mgle, with the whispering boughs,. 
Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose. 
While from steep rocks the pruner's song is heard ; 
Nor the soft cooing dove, thy fav'rite bird, 
Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting strain 
Nor turtles from th' aerial elms to plain." — "WartoV. 



PASTORAL POETRY. 629 

whose descriptions of natural beauties are richer, and more 
picturesque than those of the other.* In every pastoral, a 
sceuft, or rural prospect, should be distinctly drawn, and set be- 
fore us. It is not enough, that we have those unmeaning groups 
of violets and roses, of birds, and brooks, and breezes, which our 
common pastoral-mongers throw together, and which are per- 
petually recurring upon us without variation. A good poet 
ought to give us such a landscape, as a painter could copy after. 
His objects must be particularized ; the stream, the rock, or the 
tree, must each of them stand forth, so as to make a figure in the 
imagination, and to give us a pleasing conception of the place 
where we are. A single object, happily introduced, will some- 
times distinguish and characterize a whole scene ; such as the 
antique rustic sepulchre, a very beautiful object in a landscape ; 

• Wba* rural scenery, for instance, can be painted in more lively colours than 
the following description exhibits? 



§a0u'« 



"En t« vtoT/xaTOiiri ytytQins o'aapiiuri, 

TlaKXai 8° otfi/iit "xtp9t xara xpotrli Zmtarrt 

Atytipoi ariXia. TC to 8* iyyuBfv iipln v3wp 

Nu/i<Ba» e£ atrpoto xuTtt@6/tnov xtKipurin, 

To) ii 7T0TJ crxiipxii opoBx/ifiaiv a'lQaXiumif 

TiTTiyif Xa/.iy£S»TEf tyov nivn. a 8" oA.eXuy<J» 

Trih69fv ill rouxmijcri 6£r(uy Tp6£e<rxiv kxmOoug. 

"AeiSov x6p\iBoi xoii axetv9i$i;, tarmi rpvydn' 

XliurSmo £o»0a) 7Ttp\ n'tSaxai apf) fitXiaiTat. 

floW' CDffSev Qepsos fiaXot iriovof, waSe 8' oiru/pr\c. 

"Oyycti /xiv nap aroatr), irotp) irKtvpriai 8J yu«Xa 

&x>J/i\iw; a/i/tiii IxvXuiSiTi' to) 8" ixiymro 

"Of7ruxt( SpaPuXtw xtxTctPpiOovre; ipatrSf.- -THEOCR/T. Idyl), vii. 132. 

" on soft beds recline 

Of lentisk, and young branches of the vine ; 
Poplars and elms above, their foliage spread. 
Lent a cool shade, and wav'd the breezy head ; 
Below, a stream, from the nymph's sacred cave. 
In free meanders led its murni'ring wave : 
In the warm sunbeams, verdant shades among, 
Shrill grasshoppers renew'd their plaintive song : 
At distance far, conceal'd in shades alone, 
Sweet Philomela poured her tuneful moan. 
The lark, the goldfinch, warbled lays of love, 
And, sweetly pensive, coo'd the turtle dove : 
While honey-bees, for ever on the wing, 
Humm'd round the flowers, or sipp'd the silver spring: 
The rich, ripe season, gratified the sense 
With summer's sweets, and autumn's redolence. 
Apples and pears lay strew'd in heaps around, 
And the plum's loaded branches kiss'd the ground." — Favvkhs. 
2 M 



530 LECTURE XXXIX. 

which Virgil has set before us, and which he has takeu from 
Theocritus : 

Hinc adeo media est nobis via; jamque sepulcrum 
Incipit apparere Bianoris : hie ubi densas 
Agricolje stringunt frondes * Eel. ix. 59. 

Not only in professed descriptions of the scenery, but in the 
frequent allusions to natural objects, which occur, of course, in 
■pastorals, the poet must, above all things, study variety. He 
must diversify his face of nature, by presenting to us new 
images : or otherwise, he will soon become insipid with those 
known topics of description, which were original, it is true, in 
the first poets, who copied them from nature, but which are now 
worn threadbare by incessant imitation. It is also incumbent 
on him, to suit the scenery to the subject of the pastoral ; and, 
according as it is of a gay or a melancholy kind, to exhibit 
nature under such forms as may correspond with the emotions 
or sentiments which he describes. Thus Virgil, in his second 
Eclogue, which contains the lamentation of a despairing 
lover, gives, Avith propriety, a gloomy appearance to the 
scene : 

Tantum inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos, 
Assidue veniebat ; ibi'hoec incondita solus 
Montibus et silvis studio jactabat inani.t — v. 3. 

With regard to the characters, or persons, which are proper 
to be introduced into pastorals, it is net enough that they be 
persons residing in the country. The adventures, or the 
discourses of courtiers or citizens, in the country, are not what 
we look for in such writings ; we expect to be entertained 
by shepherds, or persons wholly engaged in rural occupations : 
whose innocence and freedom from the cares of the world may, 
in our imagination, form an agreeable contrast with the 
manners and characters of those who are engaged in the bustle 
of life. 

One of the principal difficulties which here occurs has been 
already hinted ; that of keeping the exact medium between too 

* " To our mid journey are we come, 

I see the top of old Bianor's tomb ; 
Here, Maeris, where the swains thick branches prune, 
And strew their leaves, our voices let us time." — Wartow. 
t " Mid shades of thickest beech he pin'd alone, 

To the wild woods and mountains made his moan ; 

Still day by day, in incoherent strains, 

'Twas all he could, despairing told his pains."— Warton. >, 



PASTORAL POETRY. 531 

iriucii rusticity on the one hand, and too much refinement on the 
other. The shepherd, assuredly, must be plain and unaffected 
in his manner of thinking, on all subjects. An amiable sim- 
plicity must be the groundwork of his character. At the same 
time there is no necessity for his being dull and insipid. He may 
have good sense and reflection ; he may have sprightliness and 
vivacity ; he may have very tender and delicate feelings ; since 
these are, more or less, the portion of men in all ranks of life ; 
and since, undoubtedly, there was much genius in the world, before 
there were learning, or arts to refine it. But then he must not 
subtilize ; he must not deal in general reflections and abstract 
reasoning ; and still less in the points and conceits of an affect- 
ed gallantry, which surely belong not to his character and situa- 
tion. Some of these conceits are the chief blemishes of the 
Italian pastorals, which are otherwise beautiful. When Aminta 
in Tasso, is disentangling his mistress's hair from the tree to 
which a savage had bound it, he is represented as saying, 
* Cruel tree ! how couldst thou injure that lovely hair which did 
thee so much honour ? thy rugged trunk was not worthy of such 
lovely knots. What advantage have the servants of love, if 
those precious chains are common to them, and to the trees ?** 
Such strained sentiments as these ill befit the woods. Rural 
personages are supposed to speak the language of plain sense, 
and natural feelings. When they describe, or relate, they do it 
with simplicity, and naturally allude to rural circumstances ; as 
in those beautiful lines of one of Virgil's eclogues : 

hepibus in nostris parvam te roscida mala 

(Dux ego vester pram) vidi cum matrc legentem : 

Alter ab undecimo turn me jam ceperat annus, 

Jam fragiles poteram a terra contingere ramos. 

Ut vidi, ut perii, ut me mains abstulit error .f — viii. 37. 

• Gia di nodi si bei non era degno 
Cosi rovido tronco ; or che vantaggio 
Hanno i servi d'amor, se lor commune 
E'con le piante il pretioso laccio ? 
Pianta crudel ! potesti quel bel crine 
Offender tu, ch'a te seo tanto onore ?— Atto mil- sc. i. 
f " Once with your mother to our fields you came 
For dewy apples ; thence I date my flame : 
The choicest fruit I pointed to your view j 
Though young, my raptured soul was fix'd on yon : 
The boughs I just could reach with little arms ; 
But then, even then, could feel thy powerful charme. 
Oh-Lhow I gaz'd, in pleasing transport tost! 
How glow'd my heart in sweet delusion lost !"— WARTOW. 

2 M 2 



53-2 LECTURE XXXIX. 

In another passage, lie makes a sheperdess throw an apple 
;it her lover : 

Turn fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri.* iii. 65. 

This is naive, as the French express it, and perfectly suited to 
pastoral manners. Mr. Pope wanted to imitate this passage, 
and, as he thought, to improve upon it. He does it thus : 

The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, 
She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen ; 
While a kind glance at her pursuer flies, 
How much at variance are her feet and eyes ! 

This falls far short of Virgil ; the natural and pleasing sim- 
plicity of the description is destroyed, by the quaint and affect- 
ed turn in the last line : " How much at variance are her feet 
and eyes !" 

Supposing the poet to have formed correct ideas concerning 
his pastoral characters and personages ; the next inquiry is, 
about what is he to employ them ? and what are to be the sub- 
jects of his eclogues ? For it is not enough that he gives us 
shepherds discoursing together. Every good poem, of every 
kind, ought to have a subject which should, in some way, 
interest us. . Now here, I apprehend, lies the chief difficulty of 
pastoral writing. The active scenes of country life either are, 
or to most describers appear to be, too barren of incidents. The 
state of a shepherd, or a person occupied in rural employments 
only, is exposed to few of those accidents and revolutions 
which render his situation interesting, or produce curiosity 
or surprise. The tenor of his life is uniform. His ambition 
is conceived to be without policy, and his love without in- 
trigue. Hence it is, that, of all poems, the most meagre com- 
monly in the subject, and the least diversified in the strain, is 
the pastoral. 

From the first lines, we can, generally, guess at all that is 
to follow. It is either a shepherd who sits down solitary by a 
brook, to lament the absence or cruelty of his mistress, and to 
tell us how the trees wither, and the flowers droop, now that 
she is gonfe; or we have two shepherds who challenge one 
another to sing, rehearsing alternate verses, which have little 

» « My Philhs me with pelted apples plies ; 

Then, tripping to the wood, the wanton hies, >.• 

And wishes to be seen before she flies. "— Dryden. 



PASTORAL POETRY". 633 

either of meaning or subject, till the judge rewards one with a 
studded crook, and another with a beechen bowl. To the fre- 
quent repetition of common-place topics, of this sort, which 
have been thrummed over by all eclogue-writers since the days 
of Theocritus and Virgil, is owing much of that insipidity which 
prevails in pastoral compositions. 

I much question, however, whether this insipidity be not 
owing to the fault of the poets, and to their barren and slavish 
imitation of the ancient pastoral topics, rather than to the con- 
fined nature of the subject. For why may not pastoral poetry 
take a wider range ? Human nature, and human passions, are 
much the same in every rank of life ; and wherever these pas- 
sions operate on objects that are within the rural sphere, there 
may be a proper subject for pastoral. One would indeed choose 
to remove from this sort of composition the operations of violent 
and direful passions, and to present such only as are consistent 
with innocence, simplicity, and virtue. But under this limitation, 
there will still be abundant scope for a careful observer of na- 
ture to exert his genius. The various adventures which give 
occasion to those engaged in country life to display their dispo- 
sition and temper ; the scenes of domestic felicity or disquiet ; 
the attachment of friends and of brothers ; the rivalship and 
competitions of lovers ; the unexpected successes or misfortunes 
of families, might give occasion to many a pleasing and tender 
incident ; and were more of the narrative and sentimental inter- 
mixed with the descriptive in this kind of poetry, it would be- 
come much more interesting than it now generally is, to the bulk 
of readers.* 

The two great fathers of pastoral poetry are, Theocritus and 
Virgil. Theocritus was a Sicilian ; and as he has laid the 
scene of his eclogues in his own country, Sicily became ever 
afterwards a sort of consecrated ground for pastoral poetry. 
His Idyllia, as he has entitled them, are not all of equal merit ; 
nor indeed are they all pastorals ; but some of them poems of 
a quite different nature. In such, however, as are properly 
pastorals, there are many and great beauties. He is distin- 
guished for the simplicity of his sentiments ; for the great 
sweetness and harmony of his numbers, and for the richness of 
his scenery and description. He is the original, of which Virgil 

* The above observations on the barrenness of the common eclogues were 
written before any translation from the German had made us acquainted in this 
v-ountry with Gesner's Idylls, in which the ideas that had occurred to me for the 
improvement of pastoral poetry, are fully realized. 



531 LECTURE XXXIX. 

is the imitator. For most of Virgil's highest beauties in his 
eclogues are copied from Theocritus ; in many places he has 
done nothing more than translate him. He must be allowed, 
however, to have imitated him with great judgment, and in 
some respects to have improved upon him. For Theocritus, it 
cannot be denied, descends sometimes into ideas that are gross 
and mean, and makes his shepherds abusive and immodest; 
whereas Virgil is free from offensive rusticity, and at the same 
time preserves the character of pastoral simplicity. The same 
distinction obtains between Theocritus and Virgil, as between 
many other of the Greek and Roman writers. The Greek led 
the way, followed nature more closely, and showed more original 
genius. The Roman discovered more of the polish and correct- 
ness of art. We have a few remains of other two Greek poets 
in the pastoral style, Moschus and Bion, which have very con- 
siderable merit ; and if they want the simplicity of Theocritus, 
excel him in tenderness and delicacy. 

The modern writers of pastorals have, generally, contented 
themselves with copying, or imitating, the descriptions and sen- 
timents of the ancient poets. Sannazarius, indeed, a famous 
Latin poet, in the age of Leo X. attempted a bold innovation. 
He composed piscatory eclogues ; changing the scene from 
woods to the sea, and from the life of shepherds to that of 
fishermen. But the innovation was so unhappy, that he has 
gained no followers. For the life of fishermen is, obviously, 
much more hard and toilsome than that of shepherds, and pre- 
sents to the fancy much less agreeable images. Flocks, and 
trees, and flowers, are objects of greater beauty, and more 
generally relished by men, than fishes and marine productions. 
Of all the moderns, M. Gesner, a poet of Switzerland, has been 
the most successful in his pastoral compositions. He has intro- 
duced into his Idylls (as he entitles them) many new ideas. His 
rural scenery is often striking, and his descriptions are lively. 
He presents pastoral life to us, with all the embellishments of 
which it is susceptible ; but without any excess of refinement. 
What forms the chief merit of this poet, is, that he writes to the 
heart ; and has enriched the subjects of his Idylls with incidents 
which give rise to much tender sentiment. Scenes of domestic 
felicity are beautifully painted. The mutual affection of hus- 
bands and wives, of parents and children, of brothers and sis- 
ters, as well as of lovers, are displayed in a pleasing and 
touching manner. From not understanding the language in 
which M. Gesner writes, I can be no judge of the poetry of his 






PASTORAL POETRY. 635 

style : but, in the subject and conduct of his pastorals, he ap- 
pears - to me to have outdone all the moderns. 

Neither Mr. Pope's nor Mr. Philips's pastorals do any great 
honour to the English poetry. Mr. Pope's were composed in 
his youth ; which may be an apology for other faults, but cannot 
well excuse the barrenness that appears in them. They are 
written in remarkably smooth and flowing numbers : and this is 
their chief merit ; for there is scarcely any thought in them 
which can be called his own ; scarcely any description, or any 
image of nature, which has the marks of being original, or copied 
from nature herself ; but a repetition of the common images that 
are to be found in Virgil, and in all poets who write of rural 
themes. Philips attempted to be more simple and natural than 
Pope ; but he wanted genius to support his attempt, or to write 
agreeably. He, too, runs on the common and beaten topics ; 
and endeavouring to be simple, he becomes flat and insipid. 
There was no small competition between these two authors, at 
the time when their pastorals were published. In some papers 
of the Guardian, great partiality was shown to Philips, and 
high praise bestowed upon him. Mr. Pope, resenting this 
preference, under a feigned name, procured a paper to be in- 
serted in the Guardian, wherein he 'seemingly carries on the plan 
of extolling Philips : but in reality satirizes him most severely 
with ironical praises ; and, in an artful covered manner, gives 
the palm to himself.* About the same time, Mr. Gay published 
his Shepherd's Week, in six pastorals, which are designed to 
ridicule that sort of simplicity which Philips and his partisans 
extolled, and are, indeed, an ingenious burlesque of pastoral 
writing, when it rises no higher than the manners of modern 
clowns and rustics. Mr. Shenstone's Pastoral Ballad, in four 
parts, may justly be reckoned, I think, one of the most elegant 
poems of this kind, which we have in English. 

I have not yet mentioned one form in which pastoral writing 
has appeared in latter ages, that is, when extended into a play, 
or regular drama, where plot, characters, and passions, are 
joined with the simplicity and innocence of rural manners. This 
is the chief improvement which the moderns have made on this 
species of composition ; and of this nature, we have two Italian 
pieces which are much celebrated, Guarini's Pastor Fido, and 
Tasso's Aminta. Both of these possess great beauties, and are 
untitled to the reputation they have gained. To the latter tho 
preference seems due, as being less intricate in the plot and 

* See Guardian, No. 40. 



S3P LECTURE XXX IX. 

conduct, and less strained and affected in the sentiments ; and 
though not wholly free from Italian refinement (of which I 
already gave one instance, the worst, indeed, that occurs in all 
the poem,) it is, on the whole, a performance of high merit. 
The strain of the poetry is gentle and pleasing ; and the Italian 
language contributes to add much of that softness, which is 
peculiarly suited to pastoral.* 

• It may be proper to take notice here, that the charge against Tasso for his 
points and conceits, has sometimes been carried too far. Mr. Addison, for 
instance, in a paper of the Guardian, censuring his Aminta, gives this example, 
"That Sylvia enters adorned with a garland of flowers, and after viewing herself 
in a fountain, breaks ont in a speech to the flowers on her head, and tells them 
that she did not wear them to adorn herself, but to make them ashamed." 
" Whoever can bear this," he adds, " may be assured, that he has no taste for 
pastoral." Guard. No. 38. But Tasso's Sylvia, in truth, makes no such ridi- 
culous figure, and we are obliged to suspect that Mr. Addison had not read the 
Aminta. Daphne, a companion of Sylvia, appears in conversation with Thyrsis, 
the confidant of Aminta, Sylvia's lover, and in order to show him, that Sylvia 
was not so simple, or insensible to her own charms, as she affected to be. 
gives him this instance ; that she had caught her one day adjusting her dress 
by a fountain, and applying now one flower, and now another, to her neck ; and 
after comparing their colours with her own, she broke into a smile, as if she 
had seemed to say, I will wear you, not for my ornaments, but to show how 
much you yield to me ; and when caught thus admiring herself, she threw 

away her flowers, and blushed for shame. This description of the vanity 

of a rural coquette, is no more than what is natural, and very different from 
what the author of the Guardian represents it. 

This censure on Tasso was not originally Mr. Addison's. Bouhours, in his 
Maniere de Men penser dans les Ouvrages d' Esprit, appears to have been the first 
who gave this misrepresentation of Sylvia's speech, and founded a criticism on 
it. Fontenelle, in hia Discourse on Pastoral Poetry, followed him in this criti- 
cism. Mr. Addison, or whoever was the author of that paper in the Guardian, 
copied from them both. Mr. Warton, in the prefatory discourse to his transla- 
tion of Virgil's Eclogues, repeats the observation. Sylvia's speech to the flower 
with which she was adorned, is always quoted as a flagrant instance of the 
false taste of the Italian poets. Whereas, Tasso gives us no such speech of Sylvia's, 
but only informs us of what her companion supposed her to be thinking, or say- 
ing to herself, when she wa» privately admiring her own beauty. After charging so 
many eminent critics, for having fallen into this strange inaccuracy, from copying 
one another, without looking into the author whom they censure, it is necessary 
for me to insert the passage which has occasioned this remark. Daphne speaks 
thus to Thyrsis : 

Hora per dirti il ver, non mi resolvo 

Si Silvia e semplicetta, come pare 

A le parole, a gli atti. Hie.r vidi un segno 

Che me ne mette in dubbio. Io la trovai 

La presso la cittade in quei gran prati, «*, 

Ove fra stagni grace un isoletta, 

Sovra essa un lago limpido e tranquillo, 

Tutta pendente in atto, che parea 

Vagheggiar fe medesma, e'nsieme insieme 

Childer consiglio a Pacqne, in quae manieia 

Dispor dovesse in su la fronte i crini, 

E sovra icrini il ve.lo, e sovra'l vclo 

1 nor, che tenea in gr.nibo ; e spesso sp^ss') 



LYRIC POETRY. 637 

I must not omit the mention of another pastoral drama, which 
will bear being brought into comparison with any composition 
of this kind, in any language ; that is, Allan Ramsay's Gentle 
Shepherd. It is a great disadvantage to this beautiful poem, 
that it is written in the old rustic dialect of Scotland, which, in 
a short time, will probably be entirely obsolete, and not intelli- 
gible ; and it is a further disadvantage, that it is so entirely 
formed on the rural manners of Scotland, that none but a native 
of that country can thoroughly understand or relish it. But, 
though subject to these local disadvantages, which confine its 
reputation within narrow limits, it is full of so much natural de- 
scription, and tender sentiment, as would do honour to any 
poet. The characters are well drawn, the incidents affecting ; 
the scenery and manners lively and just. It affords a strong 
proof, both of the power which nature and simplicity possess 
to reach the heart in every sort of writing ; and of the variety 
of pleasing characters and subjects, with which pastoral poetry, 
when properly managed, is capable of being enlivened. 

I proceed next to treat of Lyric Poetry, or the Ode ; a 
species of poetical composition which possesses much dignity, 
and in which many writers have distinguished themselves, in 
every age. Its peculiar character is, that it is intended to be 
sung, or accompanied with music. Its designation implies this. 
Ode is, in Greek, the same with song or hymn ; and lyric poetry 
imports, that the verses are accompanied with a lyre, or musical 
instrument. This distinction was not, at first, peculiar to any 
one species of poetry. For, as I observed in the last lecture, 
music and poetry were coeval, and were, originally, always 
joined together. But after their separation took place, after 
bards had begun to make verse compositions, which were to be 
recited or read, not to be sung, such poems as were designed to 

Hor prendeva un ligustro hor una rosa, 

E l'accostava al bel candido collo, 

A le guancie vermiglie, e de colori 

Fea paragone ; e poi, ficome lieta 

De la vittoria, lampeggiava un riso 

Che parea die dicesse : io pur vi vinco ; 

Ni porto voi per ornaraento mio, 

Ma porto voi sol per vergogna vostia, 

Perche siveggia qnanto mi cedete ? 

Ma mentre ella s'ornava, e vagheggiava 

Rivolsi gli occhi a caso, e si fu aceorta 

Ch'io di la m'era aceorta, e vergognando, 

Itizzosi tosto, e i fior lasio cadere ; 

In tanto io piu ridea del suo rossorc> 

LUa piu s'anossia d<\ riso mio.— AminU, (Vtlo ii, sc ii 



638 LECTURE XXXIX. 

be still joined with music or song, were, by way of distinction, 
called odes. 

In the ode, therefore, poetry retains its first and most ancient 
form ; that form, under which the original bards poured forth 
their enthusiastic strains, praised their gods and their heroes, 
celebrated their victories, and lamented their misfortunes. It is 
from this circumstance, of the ode's being supposed to retain its 
original union with music, that we are to deduce the proper idea, 
and the peculiar qualities of this kind of poetry. It is not dis- 
tinguished from other kinds, by the subjects on which it is em- 
ployed ; for these may be extremely various. I know no 
distinction of subject that belongs to it, except that other poems 
are often employed in the recital of actions, whereas sentiments, 
of one kind or other, form, almost always, the subject of the ode. 
But it is chiefly the spirit, the manner of its execution, that 
marks and characterises it. Music and song naturally add to the 
warmth of poetry. They tend to transport, in a higher degree, 
both the person who sings, and the persons who hear. They 
justify, therefore, a bolder and more passionate strain, than can 
be supported in simple recitation. On this is formed the pecu- 
liar character of the ode. Hence, the enthusiasm that belongs 
to it, and the liberties it is allowed to take, beyond any other 
species of poetry. Hence, that neglect of regularity, those di- 
gressions, and that disorder, which it is supposed to admit ; and 
which, indeed, most lyric poets have not failed sufficiently to ex- 
emplify in their practice. 

The effects of music upon the mind are chiefly two ; to raise it 
above its ordinary state, and fill it with high enthusiastic emotions ; 
or to soothe, and melt it into the gentle pleasurable feelings. 
Hence the ode may either aspire to the former character of the 
sublime and noble, or it may descend to the latter, of the plea- 
sant and the gay ; and between these there is, also, a middle 
region, of the mild and temperate emotions, which the ode may 
often occupy to advantage. 

All odes may be comprised under four denominations. First, 
sacred odes ; hymns addressed to God, or composed on reli- 
gious subjects. Of this nature are the Psalms of David, which 
exhibit to us this species of lyric poetry in its highest degree of 
perfection. Secondly, heroic odes, which are employed in the 
praise of heroes, and in the celebration of martial exploits and 
great actions. Of this kind are all Pindar's odes, and some 
iew of Horace's. These two kinds ought to have sublimity and 
elevation, for their reigning character. Thirdly, moral and phi- 



LYRIC POETRY. 539 

Josophical odes, where the sentiments are chiefly inspired by- 
virtue, friendship, and humanity. Of this kind are many of 
Horace's odes, and several of our best modern lyric productions ; 
and here the ode possesses that middle region, which, as I ob- 
served, it sometimes occupies. Fourthly, festive and amorous 
odes, calculated merely for pleasure and amusement. Of this 
nature, are all Anacreon's ; some of Horace's ; and a great 
number of songs and modern productions, that claim to be of the 
lyric species. The reigning character of these, ought to be ele- 
gance, smoothness, and gaiety. 

One of the chief difficulties in composing odes, arises from 
that enthusiasm which is understood to be a characteristic of 
lyric poetry. A professed ode, even of the moral kind, but more 
especially if it attempt the sublime, is expected to be enlivened 
and animated, in an uncommon degree. Full of this idea, the 
poet, when he begins to write an ode, if he has any real warmth of 
genius, is apt to deliver himself up to it, without control or re- 
straint ; if he has it not, he strains after it, and thinks himself 
bound to assume the appearance of being all fervour and all flame. 
In either case, he is in great hazard of becoming extravagant. 
The licentiousness of writing without order, method, or connec- 
tion, has infected the ode more than any other species of poetry. 
Hence, in the class of heoric odes, we find so few that one can 
read with pleasure. The poet is out of sight in a moment. He 
gets up into the clouds ; becomes so abrupt in his transitions, 
so eccentric and irregular in his motions, and of course so ob- 
scure, that we essay in vain to follow him, or to partake of his 
raptures. I do not require, that an ode should be as regular in 
the structure of its parts, as a didactic, or an epic poem. But 
still, in every composition, there ought to be a subject ; there 
ought to be parts which make up a whole : there should be a 
connection of those parts with one another. The transitions 
from thought to thought may be light and delicate, such as are 
prompted by a lively fancy'; but still they should be such as pre- 
serve the connection of ideas, and show the author to be one 
who thinks, and not one who raves. Whatever authority may 
be pleaded for the incoherence and disorder of lyric poetry, 
nothing can be more certain, than that any composition which is 
so irregular in its method, as to become obscure to the bulk of 
-eaders, it is so much worse upon that account.* 

* " La plupart de ceux qui parlent de l'entlioiisiasme de l'ode, en parlent 
comme s'ils 6toient eux-memes dans le trouble qu'ils veulent dtfinir. Ce ne 
sont que grands mots de f'ureur divine, dc transports de Tame, de mouvemens, 



,510 LECTURE > XXXIX- 

The extravagant liberty which several of the modern lyric 
writers assume to themselves in the versification, increases the 
disorder of this species of poetry. They prolong their periods 
to such a degree, they wander through so many different 
measures, and employ such a variety of long and short lines, 
corresponding in rhyme at so great a distance from each other, 
that all sense of melody is utterly lost. Whereas lyric compo- 
sition ought, beyond every other species of poetry, to pay at- 
tention to melody and beauty of sound ; and the versification 
of those odes may be justly accounted the best, which renders 
the harmony of the measure most sensible to every common 
ear. 

Pindar, the great father of lyric poetry, has been the occa- 
sion of leading his imitators into some of the defects I have now 
mentioned. His genius was sublime ; his expressions are beau- 
tiful and happy ; his descriptions picturesque. But finding it 
a very barren subject to sing the praises of those who had 
gained the prize in the public games, he is perpetually digres- 
sive, and fills up his poems with fables of the gods and heroes, that 
have little connection either with his subject or with one another. 
The ancients admired him greatly , but as many of the histories 
of particular families and cities to which he alludes are now 
unknown to us, he is so obscure, partly from his subjects, and 
partly from his rapid, abrupt manner of treating them, that, not- 
withstanding the beauty of bis expression, our pleasure in reading 
him is much diminished. One would imagine, that many 
of his modern imitators thought the best way to catch his 
spirit, was to imitate his disorder and obscurity. In several 
of the choruses of Euripides and Sophocles, we have the 
same kind of lyric poetry as in Pindar, carried on with more 

de lumieres, qui, mis bout-a-bout dans des phrases pompeuses, ne produisent 
pour taut aucune idee distincte. Si on les en croit, l'essence de l'enthousiasme 
est de ne pouvoir etre compris que par le.s esprits du premiere ordre, a la tete 
desquels ils se supposent, et dont ils excluent tous ceux que osent ne les pas 
entendre. — Le beau desordre de l'ode est un effet de l'art ; mais il faut prendre 
garde de donner trop d'etendue a ce terme. On autoriseroit par-la tous les 
ecarts imaginables. Un poete n'auroit plus qu'a expnmer avec force toutes les 
perishes qui lui viendroient successivement ; il se tiendroit dispense d'en ex- 
aminer le rapport, et de se faire un plan, dont toutes les parties se pretassent 
mutuellcment des beautes. II n'y auroit ni commencement, ni milieu, ni fin, 
dans son ouvrage ; et cependant Pauteur se croiroit d'autant plus sublime, qu'il 
seroit moins raisonnable. Mais qui produiroit une pareille composition dans 
l'esprit du lecteur? Elle ne laisseroit qu'un £tourdissement, cause par la mag- 
nificeice et l'harmonie des paroles, sans y faire naitre que des idees confuses, 
qui chasseroient 1'une ou l'autre, au lieu de concourir ensemble a fixer et a 
eciainer resprit."— CEuvres de M, De la Motte, torn. i. Discours sur VOde. 



LYRIC WRITING. 541 

clearness and connection, and at the same time, with much 
sublimity. 

Of all the writers of odes, ancient or modern, there is none, 
that in point of correctness, harmony, and happy expression, 
can vie with Horace. He has descended from the Pindaric 
rapture to a more moderate degree of elevation ; and joins 
connected thought and good sense with the highest beauties 
of poetry. He does not often aspire beyond that middle 
region, which I mentioned as belonging to the ode ; and those 
odes, in which he attempts the sublime, are perhaps not 
always his best.* The peculiar character, in which he excels 
is grace and elegance ; and in this style of composition, no poet 
has ever attained to a greater perfection than Horace. No poet 
supports a moral sentiment with more dignity, touches a gay 
one more happily, or possesses the art of trilling more agree- 
ably when he chooses to trifle. His language is so fortunate, 
that with a single word or epithet, he often conveys a whole 
description to the fancy. Hence he ever has been, and 
ever will continue to be, a favourite author with all persons of 
taste. 

Among the Latin poets of later ages, there have been many 
imitators of Horace. One of the most distinguished is Casimir, 
a Polish poet of the last century, who wrote four books of odes. 
In graceful ease of expression, he is far inferior to the Roman. 
He oftener affects the sublime ; and in the attempt, like other 
lyric writers, frequently becomes harsh and unnatural. But, on 
several occasions, he discovers a considerable degree of original 
genius, and poetical fire. Buchanan, in some of his lyric com- 
positions, is very elegant and classical. 

Among the French, the odes of Jean Baptiste Rousseau have 
been much and justly celebrated. They possess great beauty, 
both of sentiment and expression. They are animated, without 
being rhapsodical ; and are not inferior to any poetical produc- 
tions in the French language. 

In our own language, we have several lyric compositions of 
considerable merit. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia is well known. 



* There is no ode whatever of Horace's, without great beauties. But 
though I may be singular in my opinion, I cannot help thinking that in some of 
those odes which have been much admired for sublimity (such as Ode iv. lib. 4. 
" Qualem ministrum fulminis alitem." &c.) there appears somewhat of a strained 
and forced effort to be lofty. The genius of this amiable poet shows itself, 
according to my judgment, to greater advantage, in themes of a more tem- 
perate kind 



543 LECTURE XL. 

Mr. Grey is distinguished in some of his odes, both for tender- 
ness and sublimity; and in Dodsley's Miscellanies, several very 
beautiful lyric poems are to be found. As to professed Pindaric 
odes, they are, with a few exceptions, so incoherent, as seldom 
to be intelligible. Cowley, at all times harsh, is doubly so 
in his Pindaric compositions. In his Anacreontic odes, he is 
much happier. They are smooth and elegant; and, indeed, the 
most agreeable, and the most perfect, in their kind, of all Mr. 
Cowley's poems. 



LECTURE XL. 

DIDACTIC POETRY— DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 

Having treated of pastoral and lyric poetry, I proceed 
next to Didactic poetry ; under which is included a numerous 
class of writings. The ultimate end of all poetry, indeed of 
every composition, should be, to make some useful impression 
on the mind. This useful impression is most commonly made 
in poetry, by indirect methods ; as by fable, by narration, by 
representation of characters ; but didactic poetry openly pro- 
fesses its intention of conveying knowledge and instruction. 
It differs, therefore, in the form only, not in the scope and sub- 
stance, from a philosophical, a moral, or a critical treatise in 
prose. At the same time, by means of its form, it has several 
advantages over prose instruction. By the charm of versifica- 
tion and numbers, it renders instruction more agreeable ; by the 
descriptions, episodes, and other embellishments, which it may 
interweave, it detains and engages the fancy ; it fixes also use- 
ful circumstances more deeply in the memory. Hence it is a 
field, wherein a poet may gain great honour, may display both 
much genius, and much knowledge and judgment. 

It may be executed in different manners. The poet may 
choose some instructive subject, and he may treat it regularly, 
and in form ; or without intending a great or regular work, he 
may only inveigh against particular vices, or make some moral 
observations on human life and characters, as is commonly done 
in satires and epistles. All these come under the denomination 
of didactic poetry. 

The highest species of it, is a regular treatise on some 
philosophical, grave, or useful subject. Of this nature we have 



DIDACTIC POETRY. 54b 

several, both ancient and modern, of great merit and character . 
such as Lucretius's six books De Rerum Natura, Virgil's 
Georgics, Pope's Essay an Criticism, Akenside's Pleasures of 
the Imagination, Armstrong on Health, Horace's, Vida's, and 
Boileau's Art of Poetry. 

In all such works, as instruction is the professed object, the 
fundamental merit consists in sound thought, just principles, 
clear and apt illustrations. The poet must instruct ; but he must 
study, at the same time, to enliven his instructions, by the intro- 
duction of such figures, and such circumstances, as may amuse 
the imagination, may conceal the dryness of his subject, and 
embellisli it with poetical painting. Virgil, in his Georgics, 
presents us hfcre with a perfect model. He has the art of rais- 
ing and beautifying the most trivial circumstances in rural life. 
When he is going to say, that the labour of the country must 
begin in spring, he expresses himself thus : 

Vere novo, gelidus canis cum montibus humor 
Liquitur, et Zephyro putris se gleba resolvit; 
Depresso incipiat jam turn mihi taurus aratro 
Ingemere, et sulco attritus splendescere vomer.* 1. 43. 

Instead of telling his husbandman in plain language, that his 
crops will fail through bad management, his language is, 

Heu, magnum alterius frustra spectabis acervum, 
Concussaque famem in sylvis solabere qucrcu.f — I. 15S. 

Instead of ordering him to water his grounds, he presents us 
with a beautiful landscape : 

Ecce supercilio clivosi tramitis undam 

Elicit ? ilia cadens raucum per laevia murmur 

Saxa ciet ; scatebrisque arentia temperat arva.J — 1. 108. 

• " While yet the spring is young, while earth unbinds 
Her frozen bosom to the western winds ; 
While mountain snows dissolve against the sun, 
And streams yet new from precipices run ; 
Ev'n in this early dawning of the year, 
Produce the plough and yoke the sturdy steer, 
And goad him till he groans beneath his toil, 
Till the bright share is buried in the soil."— Deyden. 

t " On others' crops you may with envy look, 

And shake for food the long abandon'd oak." — Dryden. 

i " Behold when burning suns, or Sirius' beams 
Strike fiercely on the field and withering stems, 
Down from the summit of the neighbouring hills, 
O'er the smooth stones he calls the bubbling rills ; 
Soon as he clears whate'er their passage staid, 
And marks their future current with his spade, 
Before him scattering, they prevent his pains, 
And roll with hollow murmurs o'er the plains."— Warton. 



544 LECTURE XT,. 

In all didactic works, method and order is essentially requi- 
site ; not so strict and formal as in a prose treatise ; yet such 
as may exhibit clearly to the reader a connected train of instruc- 
tion. Of the didactic poets, whom I before mentioned, Horace, 
in his Art of Poetry, is the one most censured for want of me- 
thod. Indeed, if Horace be deficient in any thing throughout 
many of his writings, it is in this, of not being sufficiently atten- 
tive to juncture and connection of parts. He writes always with 
ease and gracefulness ; but often in a manner somewhat loose 
and rambling. There is, however, in that work, much good 
sense and excellent criticism ; and if it be considered as intended 
for the regulation of the Roman drama, which seems to have 
been the author's chief purpose, it will be found to be a more 
complete and regular treatise, than under the common notion of 
its being a system of the whole poetical art. 

With regard to episodes and embellishments, great liberty 
is allowed to writers of didactic poetry. We soon tire of a con- 
tinued series of instructions, especially in a poetical work, where 
we look for entertainment. The great art of rendering a di- 
dactic poem interesting, is to relieve and amuse the reader, by 
connecting some agreeable episodes with the principal subject. 
These are always the parts of the work which are best known, 
and which contribute most to support the reputation of the poet. 
The principal beauties of Virgil's Georgics lie in digressions of 
this kind, in which the author has exerted all the force of his 
genius ; such as the prodigies that attended the death of Julius 
Caesar, the praises of Italy, the happiness of a country life, the 
fable of Aristeus, and the moving tale of Orpheus and Eury- 
dice. In like manner, the favourite passages in Lucretius's 
work, and which alone could render such a dry and abstract 
subject tolerable in poetry, are the digressions on the evils of 
superstition, the praise of Epicurus and his philosophy, the 
description of the plague, and several other incidental illustra- 
tions, which are remarkably elegant, and adorned with a sweet- 
ness and harmony of versification peculiar to that poet. There 
is indeed nothing in poetry so entertaining or descriptive, but 
what a didactic writer of genius may be allowed to introduce in 
some part of his work; provided always, that such episodes 
arise naturally from the main subject ; that they be not dispro- 
portioned in length to it; and that the author know how to de- 
scend with propriety to the plain, as well as how to rise to the 
bold and figured style. 

Much art may be shown by a didactic poet, in connecting 



DIDACTIC POETRY. M5 

Ms episodes happily with his subject. Virgil is also distinguished 
for his address in this point. After seeming to have left his 
husbandmen, he again returns to them very naturally by laying 
hold of some rural circumstance, to terminate his digression. 
Thus, having spoken of the battle of Pharsalia, he subjoins im- 
mediately, with much art : 

Scilicet et tempus veniet, cum finibus illis, 

Agricola, incurvo terrain molitus aratro, 

Exesa inveniet scabra rubigine pila ; 

Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanes, 

Grandiaque eftbssis mirabitur ossa sepulcris.* — Geo. i. 493 

In English, Dr. Akenside has attempted the most rich and 
poetical form of didactic writing, in his Pleasures of the Ima- 
gination; and though, in the execution of the whole, he is not 
equal, he has, in several parts, succeeded happily, and displayed 
much genius. Dr. Armstrong, in his Art of Preserving Health, 
has not aimed at so high a strain as the other ; but he is more 
equal, and maintains throughout a chaste and correct ele- 
gance. 

Satires and epistles naturally run into a more familiar style, 
than solemn philosophical poetry. As the manners and charac- 
ters which occur in ordinary life are their subject, they require 
being treated with somewhat of the ease and freedom of conver- 
sation ; and hence it is commonly the "musa pedestris," which 
reigns in such compositions. 

Satire, in its first state among the Romans, had a form dif- 
ferent from what it afterwards assumed. Its origin is obscure, 
and has given occasion to altercation among critics. It seems 
to have been at first a relic of the ancient comedy, written partly 
in prose, partly in verse, and abounding with scurrility. Ennius 
and Lucilius corrected its grossness ; and at last, Horace 
brought it into that form, which now gives the denomination to 
satirical writing. Reformation of manners, is the end which it 
professes to have in view ; and in order to this end, it assumes 
the liberty of boldly censuring vice and vicious characters. It 
has been carried on in three different manners, by the three 
great ancient satirists, Horace, Juvenal, and Persius. Horace's 
style has not much elevation. He entitles his satires, " Ser- 

* " Then, after length of time, the lab'ring swains 
Who turn the turf of these unhappy plains, 
Shall rusty arms from the plough'd furrows take, 
And over empty helmets pass the rake ; 
Amus'd at antique titles on the stones, 
And mighty relics of gisrantic bones." — Drydeh. 
2 N 



Mfl LECTURE XL. 

mones," and seems not to have intended rising much higher than 
prose put into numbers. His manner is easy and graceful. 
They are rather the follies and weaknesses of mankind, than 
their enormous vices, which he chooses for the object of his 
satire. He reproves with a smiling aspect; and while ha 
moralizes like a sound philosopher, discovers, at the same time, 
the politeness of a courtier. Juvenal is much move serious and 
declamatory. He has more strength and fire, and more eleva- 
tion of style, than Horace ; but i3 greatly inferior to him in 
gracefulness and ease. His satire is more zealous, more sharp 
and pointed, as being generally directed again&t more flagitious 
characters. As Scaliger says of him, " ardet, instat, jugulat ;" 
whereas Horace's character is, " admissus circum prsecordia 
ludit." Persius has a greater resemblance of the force and fire 
of Juvenal, than of the politeness of Horace. He is distinguished 
for sentiments of noble and sublime morality. He is a nervous 
and lively writer ; but withal, often harsh and obscure. 

Poetical epistles, when employed on moral or critical sub- 
jects, seldom rise into a higher strain of poetry than satires. 
In the form of an epistle, indeed, many other subjects may be 
han'Iled, and either love poetry, or elegiac, may be carried on ; 
as in Ovid's Epistolse Heroidum, and his Epistolse de Ponto. 
Such works as these are designed to be merely sentimental ; 
and as their merit consists in being proper expressions of the 
passion or sentiment which forms the subject, they may assume 
any tone of poetry that is suited to it. JrJut didactic epistles, 
of which I now speak, seldom admit of much elevation. They 
are commonly intended as observations on authors, or on life 
and characters ; in delivering which, the poet does not purpose 
to compose a formal treatise, or to confine himself strictly to 
regular method ; but gives scope to his genius on some particular 
theme which, at the time, has prompted him to write. In all 
didactic poetry of this kind, it is an important rule, " quicquid 
praecipies, esto brevis." Much of the grace, both of satirical 
and epistolary writing, consists in a spirited conciseness. This 
gives to such composition an edge and a liveliness, which strike 
the fancy and keep attention awake. Much of their merit de- 
pends also on just and happy representations of characters. As 
they are not supported by those high beauties of descriptive and 
poetical language which adorn other compositions, we expect, 
in return, to be entertained with lively paintings of men and 
manners, which are always pleasing ; and in these, a certain 
sprightliness and turn of wit finds its proper place. The higher 



DIDACTIC POETRY. 517 

species of poetry seldom admit it ; but here it is seasonable and 
beautiful. 

In all these respects, Mr. Pope's Ethical Epistles deserve to 
be mentioned with signal honour, as a model, next to perfect, of 
this kind of poetry. Here, perhaps, the strength of his geniu,<- 
appeared. In the more sublime parts of poetry, he is not so 
distinguished. In the enthusiasm, the fire, the force and copious- 
ness of poetic genius, Dryden, though a much less correct 
writer, appears to have been superior to him. One can scarce 
think that he was capable of epic or tragic poetry; but within a 
certain limited region, he has been outdone by no poet. His 
translation of the Iliad will remain a lasting monument to his 
honour, as the most elegant and highly finished translation that, 
perhaps, ever was given of any poetical work. That he was 
not incapable of tender poetry, appears from the Epistle of 
Eloisa to Abelard, and from the Verses to the Memory of an 
Unfortunate Lady, which are almost his only sentimental pro- 
ductions ; and which indeed are excellent in their kind. But the 
qualities for which he is chiefly distinguished are, judgment and 
wit, with a concise and happy expression, and a melodious ver- 
sification. Few poets ever had more wit, and at the same time 
more judgment, to direct the proper employment of that wit. 
This renders his Rape of the Lock the greatest master-piece 
that perhaps was ever composed, in the gay and sprightly 
style ; and in his serious works, such as his Essay on Man, and 
his Ethic Epistles, his wit just discovers itself as much, as to 
give a proper seasoning to grave reflections. His imitations of 
Horace are so peculiarly happy, that one is at a loss, whether 
most to admire the original or the copy ; and they are among 
the few imitations extant, that have all the grace and ease of an 
original. His paintings of characters are natural and lively in 
a high degree ; and never was any writer so happy in that con- 
cise spirited style, which gives animation to satires and epistles. 
We are never so sensible of the good effects of rhyme in English 
verse, as in reading these parts of his works. We see it adding 
to the style an elevation which otherwise it could not have pos- 
sessed ; while at the same time he manages it so artfully, that it 
never appears in the least to encumber him ; but, on the con- 
trary, serves to increase the liveliness of his manner. He tells 
us himself, that he could express moral observations more con- 
cisely, and therefore more forcibly, in rhyme, than he could do 
in prose. 

Among moral and didactic poets, Dr. Young is of too great 

2 v 2 



548 LECTURE XL. 

eminence to be passed over without notice. In all his works, 
the marks of strong genius appear. His Universal Passion 
possesses the full merit of that animated conciseness of style, 
and lively description of characters, which I mentioned as par- 
ticularly requisite in satirical and didactic compositions. 
Though his wit may often be thought too sparkling, and his 
sentences to pointed, yet the vivacity of his fancy is so great, 
as to entertain every reader. In his Night Thoughts, there is 
much energy of expression ; in the three first there are several 
pathetic passages ; and scattered through them all, happy 
images and allusions, as well as pious reflections, occur. But 
the sentiments are frequently overstrained, and turgid; and 
the style is too harsh and obscure to be pleasing. Among 
French authors, Boileau has undoubtedly much merit in didactic 
poetry. Their later critics are unwilling to allow him any great 
share of original genius, or poetic fire.* But his Art of Poetry, 
his Satires and Epistles, must ever be esteemed eminent, not 
only for solid and judicious thought, but for correct and elegant 
poetical expression, and fortunate imitation of the ancients. 

From didactic, I proceed next to treat of Descriptive Poetry, 
where the highest exertions of genius may be displayed. By 
descriptive poetry, I do not mean any one particular species or 
form of composition. There are few compositions of any 
length, that can be called purely descriptive, or wherein the 
poet proposes to himself no other object but merely to describe, 
without employing narration, action, or moral sentiment, as the 
ground work of his piece. Description is generally introduced 
as an embellishment, rather than made the subject of a regular 
work. But though it seldom form a separate species of writ- 
ing, yet into every species of poetical composition, pastoral, 
lyric, didactic, epic, and dramatic, it both enters, and possesses 
in each of them a very considerable place ; so that in treating of 
poetry, it demands no small attention. 

Description is the great test of a poet's imagination; and 
always distinguishes an original from a second-rate genius. To 
a writer of the inferior class, nature, when at any time he at- 
tempts to describe it, appears exhausted by those who have 
gone before him in the same track. He sees nothing new, or 
peculiar, in the object which he would paint; his conceptions of 
it are loose and vague ; and his expressions, of course, feeblt 
and general. He gives us words rather than ideas ; we meet 
Tvith the language indeed of poetical description, but we appre- 

Vid. Politique Iraii oise de Marmontel. 



DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. &ip 

liend the object described very indistinctly. Whereas, a true 
poet makes us imagine that we see it before our eyes ; he 
catches the distinguishing features ; he gives it the colours of 
life and reality ; he places it in such a light that a painter could 
copy after him. This happy talent is chiefly owing to a strong 
imagination, which first receives a lively impression of the 
object ; and then, by employing a proper selection of circum- 
stances in describing it, transmits that impression, in its full 
force, to the imagination of others. 

In this selection of circumstances, lies the great art of pic- 
turesque description. In the first place, they ought not to be 
vulgar and common ones, such as are apt to pass by without 
remark ; but, as much as possible, new and original, which may 
catch the fancy, and draw attention. In the next place, they 
ought to be such as particularize the object described, and mark 
it strongly. No description that rests in generals, can be good : 
for we can conceive nothing clearly in the abstract ; all distinct 
ideas are formed upon particulars. In the third place, all the 
circumstances employed ought to be uniform, and of a piece ; 
that is, when describing a great object, every circumstance 
brought into view should tend to aggrandize, or, when descri- 
bing a gay and pleasant one, should tend to beautify, that, by 
this means, the impression may rest upon the imagination, com- 
plete and entire ; and, lastly, the circumstances in description 
should be expressed with conciseness, and with simplicity ; for 
when either too much exaggerated, or too long dwelt upon and 
extended, they never fail to enfeeble the impression that is de- 
signed to be made. Brevity, almost always, contributes to vi- 
vacity. These general rules will be best understood by illustra- 
tions founded on particular instances. 

Of all professed descriptive compositions, the largest and 
fullest that I am acquainted with, in any language, is Mr. Thom- 
son's Seasons ; a work which possesses very uncommon merit. 
The style, in the midst of much splendour and strength, is 
sometimes harsh, and may be censured as deficient in ease and 
distinctness. But notwithstanding this defect, Thomson is a 
strong and a beautiful describer ; for he had a feeling heart, and 
a warm imagination. He had studied, and copied nature with 
care. Enamoured of her beauties, he not only described them 
properly, but felt their impression with strong sensibility. The 
impression which he felt, he transmits to his readers ; and no 
person of taste can peruse any one of his Seasons, without 
having the ideas and feelings which belong to that season. 



1 60 LECTURE XL. 

recalled, and rendered present to his mind. Several instances 
of most beautiful description might be given from him ; such as 
the shower in Spring, the morning in Summer, and the man 
perishing in snow in Winter. But at present, I shall produce a 
passage of another kind, to show the power of a single well 
chosen circumstance, to heighten a description. In his Summer, 
relating the effects of heat in the torrid zone, he is led to take 
notice of the pestilence that destroyed the English fleet, at 
Carthagena, under Admiral Vernon ; when he has the following 
L'nes : 



you, gallant Vernon, saw 



The miserable scene ; you pitying saw 

To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arms ; 

Saw the deep-racking pang ; the ghastly form ; 

The lip pale qniv'ring ; and the beamless eye 

No more with ardour bright ; you heard the groans 

Of agonizing ships from shore to shore ; 

Heard nightly plunged, amid the sullen waves, 

The frequent corse. L. 1050 

All the circumstances here are properly chosen, for setting 
this dismal scene in a strong light before our eyes, But what 
is most striking in the picture, is the last image. We are con- 
ducted through all the scenes of distress, till we come to the 
mortality prevailing in the fleet, which a vulgar poet would have 
described by exaggerated expressions, concerning the multiplied 
trophies and victories of death. But, how much more is the 
imagination impressed by this single circumstance, of dead 
bodies thrown over board every night ; of the constant sound of 
their falling into the waters ; and of the admiral listening to this 
melancholy sound, so often striking his ear ! 

Heard nightly plunged, amid the sullen waves, 
The frequent corse.* 

* The eulogium which Dr. Johnson, in his Lives of the Poets, gives of 
Thomson, is high, and, in my opinion, very just : "Asa writer, he is entitled 
to one praise of the highest kind: his mode of thinking, and of expressing his 
thoughts, is original. His blank verse is no more the blank verse of Milton, or 
of any other poet, than the rhymes of Prior are the rhymes of Cowley. His num- 
bers, his pauses, his diction, are of his own growth, without transcription, with- 
out imitation. He thinks in a peculiar train, and he thinks always as a man of 
genius. He looks round on nature and life, with the eye which nature bestows 
only on a poet ; the eye that distinguishes in every thing presented to its view, 
whatever there is on which imagination can delight to be detained ; and with 
a mind, that at once comprehends the vast and attends to the minute. The 
reader of the Seasons wonders that he never saw before what Thomson shows 
him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson impresses. His aesenp- 
tion of extended scenes, and ee.neral effects, brings before us the whole mag- 
nificence of nature, whether pleasing or dreadful. The gaiety of Spring, the 
splendour of summer, the tranquillity of Autumn, and the horror of Winter, 



DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 551 

Mr. Parnell's Tale of the Hermit, is conspicuous, through- 
out the whole of it, for beautiful descriptive narration. The 
manner of the Hermit's setting forth to visit the world ; his 
meeting with a companion, and the houses in which they are 
successively entertained, of the vain man, the covetous man, 
and the good man, are pieces of very fine painting, touched 
with a light and delicate pencil, overcharged with no superfluous 
colouring, and conveying to us a lively idea of the objects. 
But of all the English poems in the descriptive style, the richest 
and most remarkable, are Milton's Allegro and Penseroso. The 
collection of gay images on the one hand, and of melancholy 
ones on the other, exhibited in these two small but inimitably 
fine poems, are as exquisite as can be conceived. They are, 
indeed, the storehouse whence many succeeding poets have en- 
riched their descriptions of similar subjects ; and they alone 
are sufficient for illustrating the observations which I made 
concerning the proper selection of circumstances in descriptive 
writing. Take, for instance, the following passage from the 
Penseroso : 



' I walk unseen 



On the dry, smooth-shaven green, 
To behold the wandering moon, 
Riding near her highest noon, 
Like one that had been led ast ray 
Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 
And oft as it" her head she bow'd 
Stooping thro' a fleecy cloud. 
Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off" curfew sound, 
Over some wide watered shore, 
Swinging slow with solemn roar r 
Or, if the air will not permit, 
Some still removed place will fit, 
Were glowing embers through the rocii 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
Far from all resort of mirth, 
Save the cricket on the hearth, 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 
To bless the doors from nightly harm: 
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour 
Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
Where I may outwatch the Bear 
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere, 

take, in theiv turn, possession of the mind. The poet leads us through the 
appearances of things, as they are successively varied by the vicissitudes of 
the year, and imparts to us so much of his own enthusiasm, that our thoughts 
expand with his imagery, and kindle with his sentiments." The censure which 
the same eminent critic passes upon Thomson's diction, is no less just and well 
founded : that " it is too exuberant, and may sometimes be charged with filling 
the ear more than the mind." 



652 LECTURE XL. 

The spirit of Plato to unfold 
What worlds or what vaat "regions hold 
Tli' immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in his fleshly nook ; 
And of those daemons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under-ground. 

Here, there are no unmeaning general expressions ; all is par- 
ticular ; all is picturesque ; nothing forced or exaggerated ; but 
a simple style, and a collection of strong expressive images, 
which are all of one class, and recal a number of similar ideas of 
the melancholy kind : particularly the walk by moon-light ; the 
sound of the curfew-bell heard distant ; the dying embers in the 
chamber ; the bellman's call ; and the lamp seen at midnight, in 
the high lonely tower. We may observe, too, the conciseness 
of the poet's manner. He does not rest long on one circum- 
stance, or employ a great many words to describe it ; which 
always makes the impression faint and languid ; but placing it 
in one strong point of view, full and clear before the reader, he 
there leaves it. 

" From his shield and his helmet," says Homer, describing 
one of his heroes in battle, " from his shield and his helmet, 
there sparkled an incessant blaze ; like the autumnal star, when 
it appears in its brightness from the waters of the ocean." This 
is short and lively : but when it comes into Mr. Pope's hand, it 
evaporates in three pompous lines, each of which repeats the 
same image in different words : 

High on his helm celestial lightnings play, 
His beamy shield emits a living ray; 
TV unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, 
Like the red star that fires tli' autumnal skies. 

It is to be observed, in general, that, in describing solemn 
or great objects, the concise manner is almost always proper. 
Descriptions of gay and smiling scenes can bear to be more 
amplified and prolonged ; as strength is not the predominant 
quality expected in these. But where a sublime or a pathetic 
impression is intended to be made, energy is above all things 
required. The imagination ought then to be seized at once ; 
and it is far more deeply impressed by one strong and ardent 
image, than by the anxious minuteness of laboured illustration. 
— " His face was without form, and dark," says Ossian, descri- 
bing a ghost ; " the stars dim twinkling through his form ; 
thrice he sighed over the hero ; and thrice the winds of the night 
roared around." 

It deserves attention too, that in describing inanimate natural 



DESCRIPTIVE POETRY". 533 

objects, the poet, in order to enliven his description, ought always 
to mix living beings with them. The scenes of dead and still 
life are apt to pall upon us, if the poet do not suggest sentiments, 
and introduce life and action into his description. This is well 
known to every painter who is a master of his art. Seldom 
has any beautiful landscape been drawn, without some human 
being represented on the canvas, as beholding it, or on some ac- 
count concerned in it. 

Hie gelidi fontes ; hie niollia prata, Lycori ; 

Hie nemus; hie ipso tecum consumerer ajvo.* — Ed. x. 42. 

The touching part of these fine lines of Virgil's is the last, 
which sets before us the interest of two lovers in this rural 
scene. A long description of the fontes, the nemus, and the prata, 
in the most poetical modern manner, would have been insipid 
without this stroke, which, in a few words, brings home to the 
heart all the beauties of the place : " hie ipso tecum consumerer 
sevo." It is a great beauty in Milton's Allegro, that it is all alive 
and full of persons. 

Every thing, as I before said, in description, should be as 
marked and particular as possible, in order to imprint on the 
mind a distinct and complete image. A hill, a river, or a lake; 
rises up more conspicuous to the fancy, when some particulai 
lake, or river, or hill, is specified, than when the terms are left 
general. Most of the ancient writers have been sensible of the 
advantage which this gives to description. Thus, in that beau- 
tiful pastoral composition, the Song of Solomon, the images 
are commonly particularized by the objects to which thej r 
allude. " It is the rose of Sharon ; the lily of the valleys ; the 
flock which feeds on Mount Gilead ; the stream which comes 
from Mount Lebanon. Come with me, from Lebanon, my 
spouse ; look from the top of Amana, from the the top of Shenir 
and Hermon, from the mountains of the leopards." Ch. iv. 8. 
So Horace : 

Quid dedicatnin poscit Apollinem 
Vates? quid orat, de patera novum 
Fundens liquorem ? non opimas 
Sardinia? segctes feracis ,' 
Non a?stuosae grata Calabria? 
Armenta ; non aurum, aut ebur Indicum. 
Non rura, quae Liris quieta 
Mordet aqua, taciturnus amnis.t — Lib. I. Ode xxxi. 1 

• " Here cooling fountains roll thro' flow'ry meads, 

Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads. 

Here could I wear my careless life away, 

And in thy arms insensibly decay." — W 
t " When at Apollo's hallowed shrine 

The poet hails the pow'r divine. 



5.VI LECTURE XL. 

Both Homer and Virgil are remarkable for the talent of po- 
etical description. In Virgil's second iEneid, where he describes 
the burning and sacking of Troy, the particulars are so well 
selected and represented, that the reader finds himself in the 
midst of that scene of horror. The death of Priam, especially, 
may be singled out as a master-piece of description. All the 
circumstances of the aged monarch arraying himself in armour, 
when he finds the enemy making themselves masters of the city j 
his meeting with his family, who are taking shelter at an altar 
in the court of the palace, and their placing him in the midst of 
them ; his indignation when he beholds Pyrrhus slaughtering one 
of his sons ; the feeble dart which he throws ; with Pyrrhus's 
brutal behaviour, and his manner of putting the old man to death, 
are painted in the most affecting manner, and with a masterly 
hand. All Homer's battles, and Milton's account, both of Para- 
dise and of the infernal regions, furnish many beautiful instances 
of poetical description. ; Ossian, too, paints in strong and lively 
colours, though he employs few circumstances ; and his chief 
excellency lies in painting to the heart. One of his fullest de- 
scriptions is the following, of the ruins of Balclutha : " I have 
seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire 
had resounded within the halls ; and the voice of the people is 
now heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from 
its place, by the fall of the walls ; the thistle shook there its 
lonely head ; the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked 
out at the window ; the rank grass waved round his head. 
Desolate is the dwelling of Moina. Silence is the house of 
her fathers." J Shakespeare cannot be omitted on this occasion, 
as singularly eminent for painting with the pencil of nature; 
Though it be in manners and characters that his chief ex- 
cellency lies, yet his scenery also is often exquisite, and happily 
described by a single stroke ; as in that fine line of the " Mer- 
chant of Venice," which conveys to the fancy as natural and 
beautiful an image as can possibly be exhibited in so few words: 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! 
Here will we sit, &c. 

And here his first libation pours, 

What is the blessing he implores? 

He nor desires the swelling grain, 

That yellows o'er Sardinia's plain, 

Nor the fair herds that lowing feed 

On warm Calabria's flowery mead ; 

Nor ivory of spotless shine ; 

Nor gold forth flaming from the mine; 

Nor the rich fields that Liris laves. 

And cats away with silent waves.— Francis. 



D INSCRIPTIVE POETRY. 566 

Much of the beauty of descriptive poetry depends upon a 
right choice of epithets. Many poets, it must be confessed, are 
too careless in this particular. Epithets are frequently brought 
in merely to complete the verse, or make the rhyme answer , 
and hence they are so unmeaning and redundant ; expletive 
words only, which, in place of adding any thing to the descrip- 
tion, clog and enervate it. Virgil's " Liquidi fontes," and 
Horace's * Prata canis albicant pruinis," must, I am afraid, be 
assigned to this class : for, to denote by an epithet that water 
is liquid, or that snow is white, is no better than mere tautology. 
Every epithet should either add a new idea to the word which it 
qualifies, or at least serve to raise and heighten its known signi- 
fication. So in Milton 



•Who shall tempt with wandering feet 



The dark, unbottom'd, infinite abyss, 

And through the palpable obscure, find out 

His uncouth way ? or spread his airy flight, 

Upborne with indefatigable wings, 

Over the vast abrupt f B. ii. 

The epithets employed here plainly add strength to the de- 
scription, and assist the fancy in conceiving it ; — the wander- 
ing feet — the unbottomed abyss — the palpable obsure — the 
uncouth way — the indefatigable wing — serve to render the 
images more complete and distinct. But there are many general 
epithets, which, though they appear to raise the signification 
of the word to which they are joined, yet leave it so undeter- 
mined, and are now become so trite and beaten in poetical 
language, as to be perfectly insipid. Of this kind are " bar- 
barous discord — hateful envy — mighty chiefs — bloody war — 
gloomy shades — direful scenes," and a thousand more of the 
same kind which we meet with occasionally in good poets ; but 
with which poets of inferior genius abound every where, 
as the great props of their affected sublimity. They give a 
sort of swell to the language, and raise it above the tone of 
prose ; but they serve not in the least to illustrate the object 
described ; on the contrary, they load the style with a languid 
verbosity. 

Sometimes it is in the power of a poet of genius, by one 
well chosen epithet, to accomplish a description, and by means 
of a single word, to paint a whole scene to the fancy. We may 
remark this effect of an epithet in the following fine lines of 
Milton's Lycidas : 

Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 



660 LECTURE XL. 

For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
Where yonr old bards, the famous Druids, lie. 
Nor on the shaggy top ofMona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 

Among these wild scenes, " Deva's wizard stream," is 
admirably imaged ; by this one word, presenting to the fancy 
all the romantic ideas, of a river flowing through a deso- 
late country, with banks haunted by wizards and enchant- 
ers. Akin to this is an epithet which Horace gives to the 
river Hydaspes. A good man, says he, stands in need of no 
arms, 

Sive per Syrtes iter aestuosas, 
Sive facturus per inhospitalem 
Caucasum ; vel quae loca fabulosus 

Lambit Hydaspes.* — I. od. 22. 5. 

This epithet, " fabulosus," one of the commentators on Horace 
has changed into K sabulosus" or ' sandy ;' substituting, by a 
strange want of taste, the common and trivial epithet of ' the 
sandy river/ in place of that beautiful picture which the poet 
gives us, by calling Hydaspes 'the romantic river,' or the scene 
of adventures and poetic tales. 

Virgil has employed an epithet with great beauty and pro- 
priety, when accounting for Daedalus not having engraved the 
fortune of his son Icarus : 

Bis conatus erat casus effinge're in auro, 
Bis patriae cecidere manus.f — JEn. vi. 32. 

These instances, and observations, may give some just idea 
of true poetical description. We have reason always to dis- 
trust an author's descriptive talents, when we find him labo 
rious and turgid, amassing common-place epithets and general 
expressions, to work up a high conception of some object, 
of which, after all, we can form but an indistinct idea. The 
best describers are simple and concise. They set before us such 

" Whetner through Lybia's burning sands 
Our journey leads, or Scythia's lands, 
Amidst th' nnbospitable waste of snows. 
Or where the fabulous Hydaspes flows."— Francis. 

t " Here hapless Icarus had found his part, 

Had not the father's grief restrain'd his art ; 
He twice essay 'd to cast his son in gold, 

Twice from his hand he dropp'd the forming mould." — Dryden. 
In this translation the. thought is justly given ; but the beauty of the expres- 
sion. " patria manus," which in the original conveys the thought with so much 
tenderness, is lost. 



THE POETRT OF THE HEBREWS. 657 

features of an object, as, on the first view, strike and warm 
the fancy : they give us ideas which a statuary or a painter 
could lay hold of, and work after them ; which is one of the 
strongest and most decisive trials of real merit of descrip- 
tion. 



LECTURE XLI. 

THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 

Among the various kinds of poetry, which we are at 
present employed in examining, the ancient Hebrew poetry, or 
that of the Scriptures, justly deserves a place. Viewing these 
sacred books in no higher light, than as they present to us the 
most ancient monuments of poetry extant, at this day, in the 
world, they afford a curious object of criticism. They display 
the taste of a remote age and country. They exhibit a species 
of composition, very different from any other with which we are 
acquainted, and, at the same time, beautiful. Considered as in- 
spired writings, they give rise to discussions of another kind. 
But it is our business, at present, to consider them not in a 
theological, but in a critical view : and it must needs give plea- 
sure, if we shall find the beauty and dignity of the composition 
adequate to the weight and importance of the matter. Dr. 
Lowth's learned treatise, " De Sacra Poesi Hebraeorum," ought 
to be perused by all who desire to become thoroughly acquainted 
with this subject. It is a work exceedingly valuable, both for 
the elegance of its composition, and for the justness of the criti- 
cism which it contains. In this Lecture, as I cannot illustrate 
the subject with more benefit to the reader, than by following 
the track of that ingenious author, I shall make much use of hi3 
observations. 

I need not spend many words in showing, that among the 
books of the Old Testament there is such an apparent diversity 
in style, as sufficiently discovers, which of them are to be con- 
sidered as poetical, and which as prose compositions. While 
the historical books, and legislative writings of Moses, are 
evidently prosaic in the composition, the book of Job, the 
Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, the Lamentations of 
Jeremiah, a great part of the prophetical writings, and several 
passages scattered occasionally through the historical books, 



! 



558 LECTURE XU. 

carry the most plain and distinguishing marks of poetical 
writing. 

There is not the least reason for doubting, that originally 
these were written in verse, or some kind of measured numbers ; 
though, as the ancient pronunciation of the Hebrew language is 
now lost, we are not able to ascertain the nature of the Hebrew 
verse, or at most can ascertain it but imperfectly. Concerning 
this point there have been great controversies among learned 
men, which it is unnecessary to our present purpose to discuss. 
Taking the Old Testament in our own translation, which is ex- 
tremely literal, we find plain marks of many parts of the original 
being written in a measured style ; and the u disjecti membra 
poetse" often show themselves. Let any person read the histori- 
cal introduction to the book of Job, contained in the first and 
second chapters, and then go on to Job's speech in the begin- 
ning of the third chapter, and he cannot avoid being sensible, 
that he passes all at once from the region of prose to that of 
poetry. Not only the poetical sentiments, and the figured style, 
warn him of the change ; but the cadence of the sentence, and 
the arrangement of the words, are sensibly altered ; the change 
is as great as when he passes from reading Caesar's Commen- 
taries to read Virgil's iEneid. This is sufficient to show that 
the sacred Scriptures contain, what must be called poetry in the 
strictest sense of that word ; and I shall afterwards show, that 
they contain instances of most of the different forms of poetical 
writing. It may be proper to remark, in passing, that hence 
arises a most invincible argument in honour of poetry. No per- 
son can imagine that to be a frivolous and contemptible art, 
which has been employed by writers under divine inspiration, 
and has been chosen as a proper channel for conveying to the 
world the knowledge of divine truth. 

From the earliest times, music and poetry were cultivated 
among the Hebrews. In the days of the judges, mention is 
made of the schools or colleges of the prophets ; where one 
part of the employment of the persons trained in such schools 
was, to sing the praises of' God, accompanied with various in- 
struments. In the first book of Samuel (chap. x. 7.) we find, on 
a public occasion, a company of these prophets coming down 
from the hill where their school was, " prophesying," it is said, 
" with the psaltery, tabret, and harp before them." But in the 
days of King David, music and poetry were carried to their 
greatest height. For the service of the tabernacle, he appointed 
four thousand Levites, divided into twenty-four courses, and 



THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 559 

narshalled under several leaders, whose sole business it was to 
sing hymns, and to perform the instrumental music in the public 
worship. Asaph, Heman, and Jeduthun, were the chief direc- 
tors of the music ; and from the titles of some psalms, it would 
appear that they were also eminent composers of hymns or 
sacred poems. In chapter xxv. of the first book of Chronicles, 
an account is given of David's institutions, relating to the sacred 
music and poetry ; which were certainly more costly, more 
splendid, and magnificent, than ever obtained in the public ser- 
vice of any other nation. 

The general construction of the Hebrew poetry is of a sin- 
gular nature, and peculiar to itself. It consists in dividing every 
period into correspondent, for the most part into equal members, 
which answer to one another, both in sense and sound. In the 
first member of the period a sentiment is expressed ; and in the 
second member, the same sentiment is amplified, or is repeated 
in different terms, or sometimes contrasted with its opposite , 
but in such a manner that the same structure, and nearly the 
same number of words, is preserved. This is the general strain 
of all the Hebrew poetry. Instances of it occur every where on 
opening the Old Testament. Thus, in Psalm xcvi. " Sing unto 
the Lord a new song — Sing unto the Lord, all the earth. Sing 
unto the Lord, and bless his name — show forth his salvation 
from day to day. Declare his glory among the heathen — his 
wonders among all the people. For the Lord is great, and 
greatly to be praised — He is to be feared above all the gods. 
Honour and majesty are before him — strength and beauty are 
in his sanctuary." It is owing, in a great measure, to this form 
of composition, that our version, though in prose, retains so 
much of a poetical cast. For the version being strictly word 
for word after the original, the form and order of the original 
sentence are preserved ; which by this artificial structure, this 
regular alternation and correspondence of parts, makes the ear 
sensible of a departure from the common style and tone of 
prose. 

The origin of this form of poetical composition among the 
Hebrews, is clearly to be deduced from the manner in which 
their sacred hymns were wont to be sung. They were accom- 
panied with music, and they were performed by choirs or bands 
of singers and musicians, who answered alternately to each 
other. When, for instance, one band began the hymn thus : 
« The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice ;" the chorus, or semi- 
chorurf, took up the corresponding versicle : " Let the multitude 



I 



f>:tt LECTURE XLT. 

of the isles be glad thereof."—" Clouds and darkness are round 
about him," sung the one ; the other replied, " Judgment and 
righteousness are the habitation of his throne." And in this 
manner their poetry, when set to music, naturally divided itself 
into a succession of strophes and antistrophes correspondent to 
each other ; whence, it is probable, the antiphon, or responsory, 
in the public religious service of so many Christian churches, 
derived its origin. 

We are expressly told, in the book of Ezra, that the Levites 
sung in this manner ; " alternatum," or by course (Ezra iii. I] 1 ; 
and some of David's Psalms bear plain marks of their being 
composed in order to be thus performed. The 24th Psalm, in 
particular, which is thought to have been composed on the 
great and solemn occasion of the ark of the covenant being 
brought back to Mount Zion, must have had a noble effect, 
when performed after this manner, as Dr. Lowth has illustrated 
it. The whole people are supposed to be attending the proces- 
sion. The Levites and singers, divided into their several 
courses, and accompanied with all their musical instruments, 
led the way. After the introduction to the Psalm, in the two 
first verses, when the procession begins to ascend the sacred 
mount, the question is put, as by a semi-chorus, " Who shall 
ascend unto the hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in his holy 
place?" The response is made by the full chorus with the 
greatest dignity : " He that hath clean hands and a pure heart ; 
who hath not lifted up his soul to vanity, nor sworn deceitfully." 
As the procession approaches to the doors of the tabernacle, 
the chorus, with all their instruments, join in this exclamation : 
" Lift up your heads, ye gates, and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting 
doors, and the King of Glory shall come in." Here the semi- 
chorus plainly breaks in, as with a lower voice, " Who is this 
King of Glory ?" and at the moment when the ark is introduced 
into the tabernacle, the response is made by the burst of the 
whole chorus : " The Lord, strong and mighty ; the Lord, 
mighty in battle." I take notice of this instance the rather, as 
it serves to show how much the grace and magnificence of the 
sacred poems, as indeed of all poems, depends upon our know- 
ing the particular occasions for which they were composed, and 
the particular circumstances to which they were adapted ; and 
how much of this beauty must now be lost to us, through our 
imperfect acquaintance with many particulars of the Hebrew 
history, and Hebrew rites. 

The method of composition which has been explained, by 



THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 501 

correspondent versicles, being universally introduced into the 
hymns or musical poetry of the Jews, easily spread itself 
through their other poetical writings, which were not designed 
to be sung in alternate portions, and which therefore did not so 
much require this mode of composition. But the mode became 
familiar to their ears, and carried with it a certain solemn 
majesty of style, particularly suited to sacred subjects. Hence, 
throughout the prophetical writings, we find it prevailing as 
much as in the Psalms of David ; as, for instance, in the prophet 
Isaiah (chap. lx. 1.) "Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and 
the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee : For, lo ! darkness 
shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the people. But the 
Lord shall rise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen upon thee, 
and the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the 
brightness of thy rising." This form of writing is one of the 
great characteristics of the ancient Hebrew poetry ; very dif- 
ferent from, and even opposite to, the style of the Greek and 
Roman poets. 

Independently of this peculiar mode of construction, the 
sacred poetry is distinguished by the highest beauties of strong, 
concise, bold, and figurative expression. 

Conciseness and strength are two of its most remarkable 
characters. One might indeed at first imagine, that the prac- 
tice of the Hebrew poets, of always amplifying the same thought, 
by repetition or contrast, might tend to enfeeble their style. 
But they conduct themselves so as not to produce this effect. 
Their sentences are always short. Few superfluous words are 
used. The same thought is never dwelt upon long. To their 
conciseness and sobriety of expression, their poetry is indebted 
for much of its sublimity ; and all writers who attempt the sub- 
lime, might profit much by imitating, in this respect, the style 
of the Old Testament. For, as I have formerly had occasion to 
show, nothing is so great an enemy to the sublime, as prolixity 
or diffuseness. The mind is never so much affected by any 
great idea that is presented to it, as when it is struck all at 
once ; by attempting to prolong the impression, we at the same 
time weaken it. Most of the ancient original poets of all na- 
tions are simple and concise. The superfluities and excrescences 
of style were the result of imitation in after-times ; when compo- 
sition passed into inferior hands, and flowed from art and study, 
more than from native genius. 

No writings whatever abound so much with the most bold 
and animated figures, as the sacred books. It is proper to 

2 o 



56-2 LECTURE XLI. 

dwell a little upon tins article; as, through our early familiarity 
with these books, a familiarity too often with the sound of the 
words, rathei than with their sense and meaning, beauties of 
style escape us in the Scripture, which, in any other book, would 
draw particular attention. Metaphors, comparisons, allegories, 
and personifications, are there particularly frequent. In order 
to do justice to these, it is necessary that we transport ourselves 
as much as we can into the land of Judaea ; and place before our 
eyes that scenery, and those objects, with which the Hebrew 
writers were conversant. Some attention of this kind is requi- 
site, in order to relish the writings of any poet of a foreign 
country, and a different age. For the imagery of every good 
poet is copied from nature and real life ; if it were not so, it 
could not be lively; and therefore, in order to enter into the 
propriety of his images, we must endeavour to place ourselves in 
his situation. Now we shall find, that the metaphors and com- 
parisons of the Hebrew poets present to us a very beautiful view 
of the natural objects of their own country, and of the arts and 
employments of their common life. 

Natural objects are, in some measure, common to them with 
poets of all ages and countries. Light and darkness, trees and 
flowers, the forest and the cultivated field, suggest to them 
many beautiful figures. But, in order to relish their figures of 
this kind, we must take notice, that several of them arise from 
the particular circumstances of the land of Judaea. During the 
summer months little or no rain falls throughout all that region. 
While the heats continued, the country was intolerably parched ; 
want of water was a great distress ; and a plentiful shower fall- 
ing, or a rivulet breaking forth, altered the whole face of nature, 
and introduced much higher ideas of refreshment and pleasure, 
than the like causes can suggest to us. Hence, to represent 
distress, such frequent allusions among them, "to a dry and 
thirsty land where no water is ;" and hence, to describe a change 
from distress to prosperity, their metaphors are founded on the 
falling of showers, and the bursting out of springs in the desert. 
Thus in Isaiah, " The wilderness and the solitary place shall be 
glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. For 
in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the 
desert ; and the parched ground shall become a pool, and the 
thirsty land, springs of water ; in the habitation of dragons there 
shall be grass, with rushes and reeds." Chap. xxxv. 1, 6, 7. 
Images of this nature are very familiar to Isaiah, and occur in 
many parts of his book. 



THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 563 

Again, as Judaea was a hilly country, it was, during the rainy 
months, exposed to frequent inundations by the rushing of 
torrents which came down suddenly from the mountains, and 
carried every thing before them ; and Jordan, their only great 
river, annually overflowed its banks. Hence, the frequent allu- 
sions to " the noise and the rushings of many waters ;" and 
hence great calamities so often compared to the overflowing tor- 
rent, which, in such a country, must have been images particu- 
larly striking : * Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy 
water-spouts : all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me " 
Psalm xlii. 7. 

The two most remarkable mountains of the country were 
Lebanon and Carmel : the former noted for its height, and the 
woods of lofty cedars that covered it ; the latter, for its beauty 
and fertility, the richness of its vines and olives. Hence, with 
the greatest propriety, Lebanon is employed as an image 
of whatever is great, strong, or magnificent : Carmel, of what 
is smiling and beautiful. " The glory of Lebanon," says 
Isaiah, " shall be given to it, and the excellency of Carmel." (xxxv. 
2.) Lebanon is often put metaphorically for the whole state 
or people of Israel, for the temple, for the king of Assyria ; 
Carmel, for the blessings of peace and prosperity. "His 
countenance is as Lebanon," says Solomon, speaking of the 
dignity of a man's appearance ; but when he describes female 
beauty, " Thine head is like mount Carmel." Song, v. 15. 
and vii. 5. 

Tt is further to be remarked under this head, that in the im- 
ages of the awful and terrible kind, with which the sacred poets 
abound, they plainly draw their descriptions from that violence 
of the elements, and those concussions of nature, with which 
their climate rendered them acquainted. Earthquakes were not 
unfrequent ; and the tempest of hail, thunder, and lightning, in 
Judaea and Arabia, accompanied with whirlwinds and dark- 
ness, far exceed any thing of that sort which happens in more 
temperate regions. Isaiah describes, with great majesty, the 
earth " reeling to and fro like a drunkard, and removed like a 
cottage," (xxiv. 20.) And in those circumstances of terror, 
with which an appearance of the Almighty is described in the 
eighteenth Psalm, when his " pavilion round about him was 
darkness ; when hailstones and coals of fire were his voice ; and 
when, at his rebuke, the channels of the waters are said to be 
s-een, and the foundations of the hills discovered ;" though there 
may be some reference as Dr. Lowth tHnks, to the history of 

2 O 2 



504 LECTURE XLl. 

God's descent wpon Mount Sinai, yet it seems more probable, 
that the figures were taken directly from those commotions of 
nature with which the author was acquainted, and which sug- 
gested stronger and nobler images than what now occur to us. 

Besides the natural objects of their own country, we find the 
rites of their religion, and the arts and employments of their 
common life, frequently employed as grounds of imagery among 
the Hebrews. They were a people chiefly occupied with agri- 
culture and pasturage. These were arts held in high honour 
among them ; not disdained by their patriarchs, kings, and pro- 
phets. Little addicted to commerce, separated from the rest of 
the world by their laws and their religion, they were, during the 
better days of their state, strangers in a great measure to the 
refinements of luxury. Hence flowed, of course the many allu- 
sions to pastoral life, to the " green pastures and the still wa- 
ters," and to the care and watchfulness of a shepherd over his 
flock, which carry to this day so much beauty and tenderness 
in them, in the twenty-third Psalm, and in many other passages 
of the poetical writings of Scripture. Hence, all the images 
founded upon rural employments, upon the wine-press, the 
threshing floor, the stubble and the chaff. To disrelish all 
such images, is the effect of false delicacy. Homer is at least 
as frequent, and much more minute and particular in his similes, 
founded on what we now call low life ; but, in his management 
of them, far inferior to the sacred writers, who generally mix 
with their comparisons of this kind somewhat of dignity and 
grandeur to ennoble them. What inexpressible grandeur does 
the following rural image in Isaiah, for instance, receive from 
the intervention of the Deity ! " The nations shall rush like the 
rushings of many waters ; but God shall rebuke them, and they 
shall fly far off; and they shall be chased as the chaff of the 
mountain before the wind, and like the down of the thistle before 
the whirlwind." 

Figurative allusions, too, we frequently find, to the rites and 
ceremonies of their religion ; to the legal distinctions of things 
clean and unclean ; to the mode of their temple service ; to the 
dress of their priests, and to the most noted incidents recorded 
in their sacred history ; as to the destruction of Sodom, the 
descent of God upon Mount Sinai, and the miraculous passage 
of the Israelites through the Red Sea. The religion of the He- 
brews included the whole of their laws, and civil constitution. 
Jt was full of splendid external rites, that occupied their senses ; 
It wad connected with every part of their national history 






THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. fi05 

and establishment ; and hence, all ideas founded on religion 
possessed in this nation a dignity and importance peculiar to 
themselves, and were uncommonly fitted to impress the imagi- 
nation. 

From all this it results, that the imagery of the sacred poets 
is, in a high degree, expressive and natural ; it is copied directly 
from real objects that were before their eyes ; it has this advan- 
tage, of being more complete within itself, more entirely founded 
on national ideas and manners, than that of most other poets. 
In reading their works, we find ourselves continually in the land 
of Judaea. The palm-trees, and the cedars of Lebanon, are ever 
rising in our view. The face of their territory, the circumstances 
of their climate, the manners of the people, and the august cere- 
monies of their religion, constantly pass under different forms 
before us. 

The comparisons employed by the sacred poets are generally 
short, touching on one point only of resemblance, rather than 
branching out into little episodes. In this respect, they have 
perhaps an advantage over the Greek and Roman authors ; 
whose comparisons, by the length to which they are extended, 
sometimes interrupt the narration too much, and carry too visi- 
ble marks of study and labour. Whereas, in the Hebrew poets, 
they appear more like the glowings of a lively fancy, just glanc- 
ing aside to some resembling object, and presently returning to 
its track. Such is the following fine comparison, introduced to 
describe the happy influence of good government upon a people, 
in what are called the last words of David, recorded in the se- 
cond book of Samuel (xxiii. 3.) * He that ruleth over men must 
be just, ruling in the fear of God ; and he shall be as the light of 
the morning, when the sun riseth ; even a morning without clouds ; 
as the tender grass springing out of the earth, by clear shining 
after rain." This is one of the most regular and formal compari- 
sons in the sacred books. 

Allegory, likewise, is a figure frequently found in them. 
When formerly treating of this figure, I gave, for an instance of 
it, that remarkably fine and well-supported allegory, which oc- 
curs in the eightieth Psalm, wherein the people of Israel are 
compared to a vine. Of parables, which form a species of alle- 
gory, the prophetical writings are full : and if to us they some- 
times appear obscure, we must remember, that in those early 
times, it was universally the mode, throughout all the eastern; 
nations, to convey sacred truths under mysterious figures and 
representations. 



506 LECTURE XLI. 

But the poetical figure, which, beyond all others, elevates the 
style of Scripture, and gives it a peculiar boldness and sublimity, 
is prosopopoeia, or personification. No personifications em- 
ployed by any poets, are so magnificent and striking as those of 
the inspired writers. On great occasions, they animate every 
part of nature ; especially, when any appearance or operation of 
the Almighty is concerned. " Before him went the pestilence — 
the waters saw thee, O God, and were afraid — the mountains 
saw thee, and they trembled — the overflowing of the water 
passed by — the deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands 
on high." When inquiry is made about the place of wisdom, 
Job introduces the " Deep, saying, It is not in me; and the Sea 
saith, It is not in me. Destruction and Death say, We have 
heard the fame thereof with our ears." That noted sublime pas- 
sage in the book of Isaiah, which describes the fall of the king 
of Assyria, is full of personified objects : the fir-trees and cedars 
of Lebanon breaking forth into exultation on the fall of the ty- 
rant ; hell from beneath, stirring up all the dead to meet him 
at his coming ; and the dead kings introduced as speaking, 
and joining in the triumph. In the same strain are those many 
lively and passionate apostrophes to cities and countries, to 
persons and things, with which the prophetical writings every 
where abound. " O -thou sword of the Lord ! how long will 
it be ere thou be quiet? put thyself up into the scabbard, rest 
and be still." " How can it be quiet," (as the reply is instantly 
made,) " seeing the Lord hath given it a charge against Aske- 
lon, and the sea-shore ? there hath he appointed it." Jerem. 
xlvii. 6. 

In general, for it would carry us too far to enlarge upon all 
the instances, the style of the poetical books of the Old Testa- 
ment is, beyond the style of all other poetical works, fervid, 
bold, and animated. It is extremely different from that regular 
correct expression, to which our ears are accustomed in modern 
poetry. It is the burst of inspiration. The scenes are not coolly 
described, but represented as passing before our eyes. Every 
object, and every person, is addressed and spoken to, as if 
present. The transition is often abrupt ; the connection often 
obscure ; the persons are often changed ; figures crowded, and 
heaped upon one another. Bold sublimity, not correct elegance, 
is its character. We see the spirit of the writer raised beyond 
himself, and labouring to find vent for ideas too mighty for his 
utterance. 

After these remarks on the poetry of the Scripture in 



THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 567 

{general, I shall conclude this dissertation with a short account 
of the different kinds of poetical composition in the sacred books, 
and of the distinguishing characters of some of the chief 
writers. 

The several kinds of poetical composition which we find in 
Scripture, are chiefly the didactic, elegiac, pastoral, and lyric. 
Of the didactic species of poetry, the book of Proverbs is the 
principal instance. The nine first chapters of that book are 
highly poetical, adorned with many distinguished graces and 
figures of expression. At the tenth chapter, the style is sensibly 
altered, and descends into a lower strain, which is continued to 
the end ; retaining, however, that sententious, pointed manner, 
and that artful construction of period, which distinguish all the 
Hebrew poetry.. The book of Ecclesiastes comes likewise 
under this head ; and some of the Psalms, as the hundred-and- 
nineteenth in particular. 

Of elegiac poetry, many very beautiful specimens occur in 
Scripture ; such as the lamentation of D?vid over his friend 
Jonathan ; several passages in the prophetical books ; and 
several of David's Psalms, composed on occasions of distress 
and mourning. The forty-second Psalm, in particular, is in the 
highest degree, tender and plaintive. But the most regular and 
perfect elegiac composition in the Scripture, perhaps in the 
whole world, is the book entitled the Lamentations of Jeremiah. 
As the prophet mourns in that book over the destruction of the 
temple, and the holy city, and the overthrow of the whole state, he 
assembles all the affecting images which a subject so melancholy 
could suggest. The composition is uncommonly artificial. By 
turns, the prophet, and the city Jerusalem, are introduced, as 
pouring forth their sorrows ; and in the end, a chorus of the 
people send up the most earnest and plaintive supplications to 
God. The lines of the original, too, as may, in part, appear 
from our translation, are longer than is usual in the other kinds 
of Hebrew poetry ; and the melody is rendered thereby more 
flowing; and better adapted to the querimonious strain of 
elegy. 

The Song of Solomon affords us a high exemplification of 
pastoral poetry. Considered with respect to its spiritual mean- 
ing, it is undoubtedly a mystical allegory ; in its form, it is a 
dramatic pastoral, or a perpetual dialogue between personages 
in the character of shepherds ; and suitably to that form, it is 
full of rural and pastoral images, from beginning to end. 

Of lyric poetry, or that which is intended to be accompanied 



668 LECTURE XLT. 

with music, the Old Testament is full. Besides a great number 
of hymns and songs, which we find scattered in the historical 
and prophetical books, such as the song of Moses, the song of 
Deborah, and many others of like nature, the whole book of 
Psalms is to be considered as a collection of sacred odes. In 
these, wc find the ode exhibited in all the varieties of its form, 
and supported with the highest spirit of lyric poetry ; some- 
times sprightly, cheerful, and triumphant ; sometimes solemn 
and magnificent ; sometimes tender and soft. From these in- 
stances, it clearly appears, that there are contained in the Holy 
Scriptures, full exemplifications of several of the chief kinds of 
poetical writing. 

Among the different composers of the sacred books, there is 
an evident diversity of style and manner; and to trace their 
different characters in this view, will contribute not a little to- 
wards our reading their writings with greater advantage. The 
most eminent of the sacred poets are, the author of the book of 
Job, David, and Isaiah. An the compositions of David are of 
the lyric kind, there is a greater variety of style and manner in 
his works, than in those of the other two. The manner in which, 
considered merely as a poet, David chiefly excels, is the pleasing, 
the soft, and the tender. In his Psalms there are many lofty 
and sublime passages ; but in strength of description, he yields 
to Job ; in sublimity, he yields to Isaiah. It is a sort of tempe- 
rate grandeur, for which David is chiefly distinguished ; and to 
this he always soon returns, when, upon some occasions, he 
rises above it. The Psalms in which he touches us most, are 
those in which he describes the happiness of the righteous, or 
the goodness of God ; expresses the tender breathings of a 
devout mind, or sends up moving and affectionate supplications 
to Heaven. Isaiah is, without exception, the most sublime of all 
poets. This is abundantly visible in our translation ; and, what 
is a material circumstance, none of the books of Scripture ap- 
pear to have been mors happily translated than the writings of 
this prophet. Majesty is his reigning character ; a majesty 
more commanding, and more uniformly supported, than is to be 
found among the rest of the Old Testament poets. He posses- 
ses, indeed, a dignity and grandeur, both in his conceptions and 
expressions, which is altogether unparalleled, and peculiar to 
himself. There is more clearness and order too, and a more 
visible distribution of parts, in his book, than in any other of 
the prophetical writings. 

When we compare him with the rest of the poetical pro- 



THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 5G0 

phets, we immediately see, in Jeremiah, a very different genius. 
Isaiah employs himself generally on magnificent subjects. 
Jeremiah seldom discovers any disposition to be sublime, and 
inclines always to the tender and elegiac. Ezekiel, in poetical 
grace and elegance, is much inferior to them both ; but he is 
distinguished by a character of uncommon force and ardour. 
To use the elegant expressions of Bishop Lowth, with regard to 
this prophet : " Est atrox, vehemens, tragicus ; in sensibus, 
fervidus, acerbus, indignabundus ; in imaginibus fecundus, tru- 
culentus, et nonnunquam pene deformis ; in dictione grandilo- 
quus, gravis, austerus, et interdum incultus ; frequens in repe- 
titionibus, non decoris aut gratia? causa, sed ex indignatione et 
violentia. Quicquid susceperit tractandum, id sedulo persequi- 
tur ; in eo unice hseret defixus ; a proposito raro deflectens. In 
coeteris, a plerisque vatibus fortasse superatus ; sed in eo ge- 
nere, ad quod videtur a natura unice comparatus, nimirum, vi, 
pondere, impetu, granditate, nemo unquam eum superavit." 
The same learned writer compares Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah to 
Simonides, and Ezekiel to ^Eschylus. Most of the book of 
Isaiah is strictly poetical ; of Jeremiah and Ezekiel, not above 
one half can be held to belong to poetry. Among the minor 
prophets, Hosea, Joel, Micah, Habakkuk, and especially Nahum, 
are distinguished for poetical spirit. In the prophecies of 
Daniel and Jonah, there is no poetry. 

It only now remains to speak of the book of Job, with which 
I shall conclude. It is known to be extremely ancient ; generally 
reputed the most ancient of all the poetical books ; the author 
uncertain. It is remarkable, that this book has no connection 
with the affairs or manners of the Jews or Hebrews. The scene 
is laid in the land of Uzz, or Idumsea, which is a part of 
Arabia ; and the imagery employed is generally of a different 
kind from what I before showed to be peculiar to the Hebrew 
poets. We meet with no allusions to the great events of sacred 
history, to the religious rites of the Jews, to Lebanon or to 
Carmel, or any of the peculiarities of the climate of Judaea. 
We find few comparisons founded on rivers or torrents ; these 
were not familiar objects in Arabia. But the longest compari- 
son that occurs in the book, is to an object frequent and well 
known in that region, a brook that fails in the season of heat, and 
disappoints the expectation of the traveller. 

The poetry however, of the book of Job, is not only equal 
to that of any other of the sacred writings, but is superior to 
them all except those of Isaiah alone. As Isaiah is the most 



/ 
570 LECTURE XLI. 

sublime, David the most pleasing and tender, so Job is the most 
descriptive of all the inspired poets. A peculiar glow of fancy, 
and strength of description, characterise the author. No writer 
whatever abounds so much in metaphors. He may be said not 
to describe, but to render visible, whatever he treats of. A 
variety of instances might be given. Let us remark only those 
strong and lively colours, with which, in the following passages, 
taken from the eighteenth and twentieth chapters of his book, 
he paints the condition of the wicked ; observe how rapidly his 
figures rise before us ; and what a deep impression, at the same 
time, they leave on the imagination. " Knowest thou not this of 
old, since man was placed upon the earth, that the triumphing 
of the wicked is short, and the joy of the hypocrite but for a 
moment? Though his excellency mount up to the heavens, and 
his head reach the clouds, yet he shall perish for ever. He shall 
fly away as a dream, and shall not be found ; yea, he shall be 
chased away as a vision of the night. The eye also which saw 
him, shall see him no more ; they which have seen him shall say } 
Where is he ? He shall suck the poison of asps ; the viper's 
tongue shall slay him. In the fulness of his sufficiency, he shall 
be in straits ; every hand shall come upon him. He shall flee 
from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel shall strike him 
through. All darkness shall be hid in his secret places. A fire 
not blown shall consume him. The heaven shall reveal his 
iniquity, and the earth shall rise up against him. The increase 
of his house shall depart. His goods shall flow away in the day 
of wrath. The light of the wicked shall be put out; the light 
shall be dark in his tabernacle. The steps of his strength shall 
be straitened, and his own counsel shall cast him down. For he 
is cast into a net by his own feet. He walketh upon a snare. 
Terrors shall make him afraid on every side ; and the robber 
shall prevail against him. Brimstone shall be scattered upon 
his habitation. His remembrance shall perish from the earth, 
and he shall have no name in the street. He shall be driven 
from light into darkness. They that come after him shall 
be astonished . at his day. He shall drink of the wrath of the 
Almighty." 



• 



; 



671 



LECTURE XLII. 

EPIC POETRY. 

It now remains to treat of the two highest kinds of poe- 
tical writing, the Epic and the Dramatic. I begin with the 
Epic. This lecture shall be employed upon the general prin- 
ciples of that species of composition : after which, I shall take 
a view of the character and genius of the most celebrated epic 
poets. 

The epic poem is universally allowed to be, of all poetical 
works, the most dignified, and, at the same time, the most dif- 
ficult in execution. To contrive a story which shall please and 
interest all readers, by being at once entertaining, important, 
and instructive; to fill it with suitable incidents ; to enliven it 
with a variety of characters and of descriptions ; and, through- 
out a long work, to maintain that propriety of sentiment, and 
that elevation of style, which the epic character requires, is un- 
questionably the highest effort of poetical genius. Hence so very 
few have succeeded in the attempt, that strict critics will hardly 
allow any other poems to bear the name of epic, except the Iliad 
and the iEneid 

There is no subject, it must be confessed, on which critics 
have displayed more pedantry, than on this. By tedious disqui- 
sitions, founded on a servile submission to authority, they have 
given such an air of mystery to a plain subject, as to render it 
difficult for an ordinary reader to conceive what an epic poem 
is. By Bossu's definition, it is a discourse invented by art, 
purely to form the manners of men, by means of instructions 
disguised under the allegory of some important action, which 
is related in verse. This definition would suit several of iEsop's 
fables, if they were somewhat extended, and put into verse ; 
and, accordingly, to illustrate his definition, the critic draws 
a parallel, in form, between the construction of one of iEsop's 
Fables, and the plan of Homer's Iliad. The first thing, says 
he, which either a writer of fables, or of heroic poems, does, 
is to choose some maxim, or point of morality ; to inculcate 
which, is to be the design of his work. Next, he invents a 
general story, or a series of facts, without any names, such as 
he judges will be most proper for illustrating his intended mo- 
ral. Lastly, he particularizes his story: that is, if he be a 
fabulist, he introduces his dog, his sheep, and his wolf ; or if he 






572 LECTURE XLII. 



be an epic poet, he looks out in ancient history for some proper 
names of heroes to give to his actors ; and then his plan is 
completed. 

This is one of the most frigid and absurd ideas, that ever 
entered into the mind of a critic. Homer, he says, saw the 
Grecians divided into a great number of independent states ; 
but very often obliged to unite into one body against their com 
mon enemies. The most useful instruction which he could give 
them in this situation, was, that a misunderstanding between 
princes is the ruin of the common cause. In order to enforce 
this instruction, he contrived, in his own mind, such a general 
story as this. Several princes join in a confederacy against 
their enemy. The prince, who was chosen as the leader of the 
rest, affronts one of the most valiant of the confederates, who 
thereupon withdraws himself, and refuses to take part in the 
common enterprise. Great misfortunes are the consequence of 
this division ; till, at length, both parties have suffered by the 
quarrel, the offended prince forgets his displeasure, and is re- 
conciled to the leader ; and union being once restored, there 
ensues complete victory over their enemies. Upon this general 
plan of his fable, adds Bossu, it was of no great consequence, 
whether, in filling it up, Homer had employed the names of 
beasts, like iEsop, or of men He would have been equally 
instructive either way. Eut as lie rather fancied to write of 
heroes, he pitched upon the war of Troy for the scene of his 
fable ; he feigned such an action to happen there ; he gave the 
name of Agamemnon to the common leader ; that of Achilles, to 
the offended prince ; and so the Iliad arose. 

He that can believe Homer to have proceeded in this man- 
ner, may believe any thing. One may pronounce with great 
certainty, that an author who should compose according to such 
a plan ; who should arrange all the subject, in his own mind, 
with a view to the moral, before he had ever thought of the 
personages who were to be the actors ; might write, perhaps, 
useful fables for children ; but as to an epic poem, if he adven- 
tured to think of one, it would be such as would find few read- 
ers. No person of any taste can entertain a doubt, that the first 
objects which strike an epic poet are, the hero whom he is to 
celebrate, and the action, or story, which is to be the ground- 
work of his poem. He does not sit down, like a philosopher, 
to form the plan of a treatise of morality. His genius is fired 
by some great enterprize, which, to him, appears noble and in- 
teresting ; and which, therefore, he pitches upon as worthy of 



EPIC POETRY. 573 

being celebrated iu the highest strain of poetry. There is no 
subject of this kind, but will always afford some general moral 
instruction, arising from it naturally. The instruction which 
Bossu points out, is certainly suggested by the Iliad ; and there 
is another which arises as naturally, and may just as well be 
assigned for the moral of that poem ; namely, that providence 
avenges those who have suffered injustice ; but that when they 
allow their resentment to carry them too far, it brings misfor- 
tunes on themselves. The subject of the poem is the wrath of 
Achilles, caused by the injustice of Agamemnon. Jupiter aven- 
ges Achilles, by giving success to the Trojans against Agamem- 
non ; but by continuing obstinate in his resentment, Achilles loses 
his beloved friend Patroclus. 

The plain account of the nature of an epic poem is, the 
recital of some illustrious enterprise in a poetical form. This is 
as exact a definition, as there is any occasion for on this sub 
ject. It comprehends several other poems besides the Iliad of 
Homer, the iEneid of Virgil, and the Jerusalem of Tasso ; which 
are, perhaps, the three most regular and complete epic works 
that ever were composed. But to exclude all poems from the 
epic class, which are not formed exactly upon the same model 
as these, i3 the pedantry of criticism. We can give exact de- 
finitions, and descriptions of minerals, plants, and animals, and 
can arrange them with precision under the different classes to 
which they belong, because nature affords a visible unvarying 
standard, to which we refer them. But with regard to works 
of taste and imagination, where nature has fixed no standard, 
but leaves scope for beauties of many different kinds, it is ab- 
surd to attempt defining and limiting them with the same pre- 
cision. Criticism, when employed in such attempts, degenerates 
into trifling questions about words and names only. I therefore 
have no scruple to class such poems as Milton's Paradise Lost, 
Lucan's Pharsalia, Statius's Thebaid, Ossian's Fingal and 
Temora, Camoens' Lusiad, Voltaire's Henriade, Cambray's 
Telemachus, Glover's Leonidas, Wilkie's Epigoniad, under the 
same species of composition with the Iliad and the iEneid ; 
though some of them approach much nearer than others to the 
perfection of these celebrated works. They are, undoubtedly, 
all epic— that is, poetical recitals of great adventures ; which is 
all that is meant by this denomination of poetry. 

Though I cannot, by any means, allow, that it is the essence 
of an epic poem to be wholly an allegory, or a fable contrived 
to illustrate some moral truth, yet it is certain that no poetry is 



671 LECTURE XLII.. / 

of a more moral nature than this Its effect in promoting virtue, 
is not to be measured by any oue maxim, or instruction, which 
results from the whole story, like the moral of one of iEsop's 
Fables. This is a poor and trivial view of the advantage to be 
derived from perusing a long epic work, that, at the end, we 
shall be able to gather from it some common-place morality. Its 
effect arises, from the impression which the parts of the poem 
separately, as well as the whole taken together, make upon the 
mind of the reader : from the great examples which it sets before 
us, and the high sentiments with which it warms our hearts. 
The end which it proposes, is to extend our ideas of human per- 
fection ; or, in other words, to excite admiration. Now this can 
be accomplished only, by proper representations of heroic deeds, 
and virtuous characters. For high virtue is the object, which 
all mankind are formed to admire ; and, therefore, epic poems 
are, and must be, favourable to the cause of virtue Valour, 
truth, justice, fidelity, friendship, piety, magnanimity, are the 
objects which, in the course of such compositions, are presented 
to our minds, under the most splendid and honourable colours. 
In behalf of virtuous personages, our affections are engaged; 
in their designs, and their distresses, we are interested ; the 
generous and public affections are awakened; the mind is puri- 
fied from sensual and mean pursuits, and accustomed to take 
part in great, heroic enterprises. It is, indeed, no small testi- 
mony in honour of virtue, that several of the most refined and 
elegant entertainments of mankind, such as that species of poe- 
tical composition which we now consider, must be grounded on 
moral sentiments and impressions. This is a testimony of such 
weight, that, were it in the power of sceptical philosophers to 
weaken the force of those reasonings which establish the essen- 
tial distinctions between vice and virtue, the writings of epic 
poets alone were sufficient to refute their false philosophy ; show- 
ing, by that appeal which they constantly make to the feelings of 
mankind in favour of virtue, that the foundations of it are laid 
deep, and strong, in human nature. 

The general strain and spirit of epic composition sufficiently 
mark its distinction from the other kinds of poetry. In pas- 
toral writing, the reigning idea is innocence and tranquillity. 
Compassion is the great object of tragedy; ridicule, the province 
of comedy. The predominant character of the epic is, admira- 
tion excited by heroic actions. It is sufficiently distinguished 
from history, both by its poetical form, and the liberty of fic- 
tion which it assumes. It is a more calm composition than tra- 



EPIC POETRY. 

gedy. It admits, nay requires, the pathetic and the violent, on 
particular occasions ; but the pathetic is not expected to be its 
general character. It requires, more than any other species of 
poetry, a grave, equal, and supported dignity. It takes in a 
greater compass of time and action than dramatic writing ad- 
mits ; and thereby allows a more full display of characters. 
Dramatic writings display characters chiefly by means of senti- 
ments and passions ; epic poetry, chiefly by means of actions. 
The emotions, therefore, which it raises, are not so violent, but 
they are more prolonged. These are the general characteristics 
of this species of composition. But, in order to give a more 
particular and critical view of it, let us consider the epic poem 
under three heads ; first, with respect to the subject, or action ; 
secondly, with respect to the actors, or characters ; and, lastly, 
with respect to the narration of the poet. 

The action, or subject of the epic poem, must have three 
properties : it must be one ; it must be great ; it must be in- 
teresting. 

First, it must be one action, or enterprise, which the poet 
chooses for his subject. I have frequently had occasion to re- 
mark the importance of unity, in many kinds of composition, 
in order to make a full and strong impression upon the mind. 
With the highest reason, Aristotle insists upon this$ as essential 
to epic poetry ; and it is, indeed, the most material of all his 
rules respecting it. For it is certain, that, in the recital of 
heroic adventures, several scattered and independent facts can 
never affect a reader so deeply, nor engage his attention so 
strongly, as a tale that is one and connected, where the several 
incidents hang upon one another and are all made to conspire 
for the accomplishment of one end. In a regular epic, the more 
sensible this unity is rendered to the imagination, the better will 
be the effect ; and for this reason, as Aristotle has observed, it is 
not sufficient for the poet to confine himself to the actions of one 
man, or to those which happened during a certain period of 
time ; but the unity must lie in the subject itself, and arise from 
all the parts combining into one whole. 

In all the great epic poems, unity of action is sufficiently 
apparent. Virgil, for instance, has chosen for his subject, the 
establishment of iEneas in Italy. From the beginning to the 
end of the poem, this object is ever in our view, and links all the 
parts of it together with full connexion. The unity of the 
Odyssey is of the same nature ; the return and re-establishment 
of Ulysses in his own country. The subject of Tasso, is the re- 






.176 LECTURE XLII. 

covery ol Jerusalem from the Infidels ; that of Milton, the ex- 
pulsion of our first parents from Paradise ; and both of them are 
unexceptionable in the unity of the story. The professed subject 
of the Iliad, is the anger of Achilles, with the consequences 
which it produced. The Greeks carry on many unsuccessful en- 
gagements against the Trojans, as long as they are deprived of 
the assistance of Achilles. Upon his being appeased and recon- 
ciled to Agamemnon, victory follows, and the poem closes. It 
must be owned, however, that the unity, or connecting principle, 
is not quite so sensible to the imagination here as in the iEneid. 
For, throughout many books of the Iliad, Achilles is out of 
sight ; he is lost in inaction ; and the fancy terminates on no 
other object, than the success of the two armies whom Ave see 
contending in war 

The unity of the epic action is not to be so strictly interpreted, 
as if it excluded all episodes, or subordinate actions. It is neces- 
sary to observe here, that the term episode is employed by Aris- 
totle in a different sense from what we now give to it. It was a 
term originally applied to dramatic poetry, and thence transferred 
to epic ; and by episodes, in an epic poem, it should seem that 
Aristotle understood the extension of the general fable, or plan 
of the poem, into all its circumstances. What his meaning was, 
is, indeed, not very clear ; and this obscurity has occasioned 
much altercation among critical writers. Bossu, in particular, 
is so perplexed upon this subject, as to be almost unintelligible. 
But, dismissing so fruitless a controversy, what we now under- 
stand by episodes, are certain actions, or incidents, introduced 
into the narration, connected with the principal action, yet not 
of such importance as to destroy, if they had been omitted, the 
main subject of the poem. Of this nature are the interview of 
Hector with Andromache, in the Iliad ; the story of Cacus, and 
that of Nisus and Euryalus, in the iEneid; the adventures of 
Tancred with Erminia and Clorinda, in the Jerusalem ; and the 
prospect of his descendants exhibited to Adam, in the last books 
of Paradise Lost. 

Such episodes as these are. not only permitted to an epic 
poet ; but, provided they be properly executed, are great orna- 
ments to his work. The rules regarding them are the fol- 
lowing : — 

First, they must be naturally introduced ; they must have a 
sufficient connexion with the subject of the poem ; they must 
seem inferior parts that belong to it ; not mere appendages 
struck to it. The episode of Olinda and Sophronia, in the 






? 



EPIC POETRY. fl77 

escond book of Tasso's Jerusalem, is faulty, by transgressing 
tins rule. It is too much detached from the rest of the work ; 
and being introduced so near the opening of the poem, misleads 
the reader into an expectation that it is to be of some future con- 
sequence ; whereas it proves to be connected with nothing that 
follows. In proportion as any episode is slightly related to the 
main subject, it should always be the shorter. The passion of 
Dido in the iEneid, and the snares of Armida in the Jerusalem, 
which are expanded so fully in these poems, cannot, with pro- 
priety, be called episodes. They are constituent parts of the 
work, and form a considerable share of the intrigue of the 
poem. 

In the next place, episodes ought to present to us objects 
of a different kind, from those which go before, and those which 
follow, in the course of the poem. For it is principally for the 
8ake of variety that episodes are introduced into an epic com- 
position. In so long a work, they tend to diversify the subject 
and to relieve the reader, by shifting the scene. In the midst of 
combats, therefore, an episode of the martial kind would be out 
of place; whereas, Hector's visit to Andromache in the Iliad, 
and Erminia's adventure with the Shepherd in the seventh book 
of the Jerusalem, afford us a well-judged and pleasing retreat 
from camps and battles. 

Lastly, as an episode is a professed embellishment, it ought 
to be particularly elegant and well-finished; and, accordingly, it 
is, for the most part, in pieces of this kind that poets put forth 
their strength. The episodes of Teribazus and Ariana, in 
Leonidas, and of the death of Hercules, in the Epigoniad, are 
the two greatest beauties in these poems. 

The \ii. ty of the epic action necessarily supposes, that the 
action be entire and complete ; that is, as Aristotle well ex- 
presses it, that it have a beginning, a middle, and an end. 
Either by relating the whole, in his own person, or by intro- 
ducing some of his actors to relate what had passed before the 
opening of the poem, the author must always contrive to give us 
full information of every thing that belongs to his subject; he 
must not leave our curiosity, in any article, ungratified ; he 
must bring us precisely to the accomplishment of his plan ; and 
then conclude. 

The second property of the epic action, is, that it be great ; 
that it have sufficient splendour and importance, both to fix our 
attention, and to justify the magnificent apparatus which the 
poet bestows upon it. This is so evidently requisite as not to 

2 P 



57B LECTURE XLU. 

require illustration; and, indeed, hardly any who have at- 
tempted epic poetry have failed in choosing some subject suf- 
ficiently important, either by the nature of the action, or by the 
fame of the personages concerned in it. 

It contributes to the grandeur of the epic subject, that it be 
not of a modern date, nor fall within any period of history with 
which we are intimately acquainted. Both Lucan and Voltaire 
have, in the choice of their subjects, transgressed this rule, and 
they have, upon that account, succeeded worse. Antiquity is 
favourable to those high and august ideas which epic poetry is 
designed to raise. It tends to aggrandize, in our imagination, 
both persons and events ; and what is still more material, it al- 
lows the poet the liberty of adorning his subject by means of 
fiction. Whereas, as soon as he comes within the verge of real 
and authenticated history, this liberty is abridged. He must 
either confine himself wholly, as Lucan has done, to strict his- 
torical truth, at the expense of rendering his story jejune ; or, if 
he goes beyond it, like Voltaire in his Henriade, this disadvan- 
tage follows, that, in well known events, the true and the ficti- 
tious parts of the plan do not naturally mingle and incorporate 
with each other. These observations cannot be applied to dra- 
matic writing ; where the personages are exhibited to us, not so 
much that we may admire, as that we may love or, pity them. 
Such passions are much more consistent with the familiar histo- 
rical knowledge of the persons who are to be the objects of them ; 
and even require them to be displayed in the light, and with the 
failings, of ordinary men. Modern, and well-known history, 
therefore, may furnish very proper materials for tragedy. But 
for epic poetry, where heroism is the ground-work, and where 
the object in view is to excite admiration, ancient or tradi- 
tionary history is assuredly the safest region. There, the author 
may lay hold on names, and characters, and events, not wholly 
unknown, on which to build his story ; while, at the same 
time, by reason of the distance of the period, or of the remote- 
ness of the scene, sufficient license is left him for fiction and in- 
vention. 

The third property required in the epic poem, is, that it be 
interesting. It is not sufficient for this purpose that it be great. 
For deeds of mere valour, how heroic soever, may prove cold 
and tiresome. Much will depend on the happy choice of some 
subject, which shall, by its nature, interest the public ; as when 
the poet selects for his hero, one who is the founder, or the deli- 
verer, or the favourite of his nation ; or when he writes of 



EPIC POETRY. 379 

achievements that have been highly celebrated, or have been con- 
nected with important consequences to any public cause. Most 
of the great epic poems are abundantly fortunate in this respect, 
and must have been very interesting to those ages and countries 
in which they were composed 

But the chief circumstance which renders an epic poem in- 
teresting, and which tends to interest, not one age or country 
alone, but all readers, is the skilful conduct of the author in the 
management of his subject. He must so contrive his plan, as 
that it shall comprehend many affecting incidents. He must not 
dazzle us perpetually with valiant achievements ; for all readers 
tire of constant fighting, and battles ; but he must study to touch 
our hearts. He may sometimes be awfal and august ; he must 
often be tender and pathetic ; he must give us gentle and plea- 
sing scenes of love, friendship, and affection. The more an epic 
poem abounds with situations which awaken the feelings of hu- 
manity, the more interesting it is ; and these form, always, the 
favourite passages of the work. I know no epic poets so hap- 
py in this respect as Virgil and Tasso. 

Much, too, depends on the characters of the heroes, for ren- 
dering the poem interesting ; that they be such as shall strongly 
attach the readers, and make them take part in the dangers 
which the heroes encounter. These dangers, or obstacles, form 
what is called the nodus, or the intrigue of the epic poem ; in 
the judicious conduct of which consists much of the poet's art. 
He must rouse our attention, by a prospect of the difficulties 
which seem to threaten disappointment to the enterprise of his 
favourite personages ; he must make these difficulties grow and 
thicken upon us, by degrees ; till after having kept us, for some 
time, in a state of agitation and suspense, he paves the way, by 
a proper preparation of incidents, for the winding up of the 
plot in a natural and probable manner. It is plain, that every 
tale which is designed to engage attention, must be conducted on 
a plan of this sort. 

A question has been moved, whether the nature of the epic 
poem does not require that it should always end successfully ? 
Most critics are inclined to think, that a successful issue is the 
most proper ; and they appear to have reason on their side. An 
unhappy conclusion depresses the mind, and is opposite to the 
elevating emotions which belong to this species of poetry. 
Terror and compassion are the proper subjects of tragedy ; but 
as the epic poem is of larger compass and extent, it were too 
much, if, after the difficulties and troubles which commonly 

2 p 2 



S80 LECTURE XLII. 

abound in the progress of the poem, the author should bring 
them all at last to an unfortunate issue. Accordingly, the general 
practice of epic poets is on the side of a prosperous conclusion ; 
not, however, without some exceptions. For two authors of 
great name, Lucan and Milton, have held a contrary course ; 
the one concluding with the subversion of the Roman liberty ; 
the other, with the expulsion of man from Paradise 

With regard to the time or duration of the epic action, no 
precise boundaries can be ascertained. A considerable extent is 
always allowed to it, as it does not necessarily depend on those 
violent passions which can be supposed to have only a short con- 
tinuance. The Iliad, which is formed upon the anger of Achilles, 
has, with propriety, the shortest duration of any of the great 
epic poems. According to Bossu, the action lasts no longer than 
forty-seven days. The action of the Odyssey, computed from 
the taking of Troy to the peace of Ithaca, extends to eight years 
and a half; and the action of the iEneid, computed in the same 
way, from the taking of Troy to the death of Turnus, includes 
about six years But if we measure the period only of the poet's 
own narration, or compute from the time in which the hero make3 
his first appearance till the conclusion, the duration of both these 
last poems is brought within a much smaller compass. The 
Odyssey, beginning with Ulysses in the island of Calypso, com- 
prehends fifty-eight days only ; and the iEneid, beginning 
with the storm which throws iEneas upon the coast of Africa, is 
reckoned to include, at the most, a year and some months. 

Having thus treated of the epic action, or the subject of the 
poem, I proceed next to make some observations on the actors 
or personages. 

As it is the business of an epic poet to copy after nature, 
and to form a probable interesting tale, he must study to give 
all his personages proper and well supported characters, such as 
display the features of human nature. This is what Aristotle 
calls, giving manners to the poem. It is by no means necessary, 
that all his actors be morally good ; imperfect, nay, vicious 
characters may find a proper place ; though the nature of epic 
poetry seems to require, that the principal figures exhibited 
should be such as tend to raise admiration and love, rather than 
hatred or contempt. But whatever the character be which a 
poet gives to any of his actors, he must take care to preserve it 
uniform, and consistent with itself. Every thing which that pet- 
son says, or does, must be suited to it, and must serve to dis- 
tinguish him from any other. 



EPIC POETRY. 581 

Poetic characters maybe divided into two kinds, general and 
particular. General characters are, such as are wise, brave, vir- 
tuous, without any farther distinction. Particular characters ex- 
press the species of bravery, of wisdom, of virtue, for which any 
one is eminent. They exhibit the peculiar features which dis- 
tinguish one individual from another, which mark the difference 
of the same moral quality in different men, according as it is 
combined with other dispositions in their temper. In drawing 
such particular characters, genius is chiefly exerted. How far 
each of the three great epic poets have distinguished themselves 
in this part of composition, I shall have occasion afterwards to 
show, when I come to make remarks upon their works. It is 
sufficient now to mention, that it is in this part Homer has prin- 
cipally excelled ; Tasso has come the nearest to Homer ; and 
Virgil has been the most deficient. 

It has been the practice of all epic poets, to select some one 
personage, whom they distinguish above all the rest, and make 
the hero of the tale. This is considered as essential to epic com- 
position, and is attended with several advantages. It renders 
the unity of the subject more sensible, when there is one princi- 
pal figure, to which, as to a centre, all the rest refer. It ten,ds 
to interest us more in the enterprise which is carried on ; and 
it gives the poet an opportunity of exerting his talents for adorn- 
ing and displaying one character, with peculiar splendour. It 
has been asked, who then is the hero of Paradise Lost ? The devil, 
it has been answered by some critics ; and in consequence of 
this idea, much ridicule and censure has been thrown upon Mil- 
ton. But they have mistaken that author's intention, by pro- 
ceeding upon a supposition, that, in the conclusion of the poem, 
the hero must needs be triumphant. Whereas Milton followed 
a different plan, and has given a tragic conclusion to a poem, 
otherwise epic in its form. For Adam is undoubtedly his 
hero ; that is, the capital and most interesting figure in his 
poem. 

Besides human actors, there are peisonages of another kind, 
that usually occupy no small place in epic poetry ; I mean the 
gods, or supernatural beings. This brings us to the considera- 
tion of what is called the machinery of the epic poem ; the most 
nice and difficult part of the subject. Critics appear to me to 
have gone to extremes on both sides. Almost all the French 
critics decide in favour of machinery, as essential to the consti- 
tution of an epic poem. They quote that sentence of Petronius 
Arbiter, as if it were an oracle, " per ambages, Deorumquc 



m LECTURE XLU. 

ministeria, praecipitandus est liber spiritus ;" and hold, that 
though a poem had every other requisite that could be demanded, 
yet it could not be ranked in the epic class, unless the main ac- 
tion was carried on by the intervention of the gods. This deci- 
sion seems to be founded on no principle or reason whatever, 
unless a superstitious reverence for the practice of Homer and 
Virgil. These poets very properly embellished their story by 
the traditional tales and popular legends of their own country ; 
according to which, all the great transactions of the heroic times 
were intermixed with the fables of their deities. But does it 
thence follow, that in other countries, and other ages, where 
there is not the like advantage of current superstition and popu- 
lar credulity, epic poetry must be wholly confined to antiquated 
fictions and fairy tales ? Lucan has composed a very spirited 
poem, certainly of the epic kind, where neither gods nor super- 
natural beings are at all employed. The author of Leonidas 
has made an attempt of the same kind, not without success , 
and beyond doubt, wherever a poet gives us a regular heroic 
story, well connected in its parts, adorned with characters, and 
supported with proper dignity and elevation, though his agents 
be every one of them human, he has fulfilled the chief requisites 
of this sort of composition, and has a just title to be classed with 
epic writers. 

But though I cannot admit that machinery is necessary or 
essential to the epic plan, neither can I agree with some late 
critics of considerable name, who are for excluding it totally, as 
inconsistent with that probability and impression of reality which 
they think should reign in this kind of writing.* Mankind do 
not consider poetical writings with so philosophical an eye. 
They seek entertainment from them ; and for the bulk of read- 
ers, indeed for almost all men, the marvellous has a great charm. 
It gratifies and fills the imagination ; and gives room for many 
a striking and sublime description. In epic poetry, in particular, 
where admiration and lofty ideas are supposed to reign, the 
marvellous and supernatural find, if any where, their proper 
place. They both enable the poet to aggrandize his subject, 
by means of those august and solemn objects which religion 
introduces into it ; and they allow him to enlarge and diversify 
his plan, by comprehending within it heaven, and earth, and 
hell, men and invisible beings, and the whole circle of the 
universe. 

* See Elem. of Criticism, cli. 22. 



EPIC POETRY. 683 

At the same time, in the use of this supernatural machinery, 
it becomes a poet to be temperate and prudent. He is not at 
liberty to invent what system of the marvellous he pleases. It 
must always have some foundation in popular belief. He must 
avail himself in a decent manner, either of the religious faith, or 
the superstitious credulity of the country wherein he lives, or of 
which he writes, so as to give an air of probability to events 
which are most contrary to the common course of nature. What- 
ever machinery he employs, he must take care not to overload 
us with it ; nor to withdraw human actions and manners too 
much from view, nor to obscure them under a cloud of incredi- 
ble fictions. He must always remember, that his chief business 
is to relate to men, the actions and the exploits of men ; that it 
is by these principally he is to interest us, and to touch our 
hearts ; and that if probability be altogether banished from his 
work, it can never make a deep or a lasting impression. In- 
deed, I know nothing more difficult in epic poetry, than to 
adjust properly the mixture of the marvellous with the probable ; 
so as to gratify and amuse us with the one, without sacrificing 
the other. I need hardly observe, that these observations affect 
not the conduct of Milton's work ; whose plan being altogether 
theological, his supernatural beings form not the machinery, but 
are the principal actors in the poem. 

With regard to allegorical personages, Fame, Discord, 
Love, and the like, it may be safely pronounced, that they form 
the worst machinery of any. In description they are some- 
times allowable, and may serve for embellishment ; but they 
should never be permitted to bear any share in the action of 
the poem. For being plain and declared fictions, mere names 
of general ideas, to which even fancy cannot attribute any ex- 
istence as persons, if they are introduced as mingling with 
human actors, an intolerable confusion of shadows and re- 
alities arises, and all consistency of action is utterly de- 
stroyed. 

In the narration of the poet, which is the last head that re- 
mains to be considered, it is not material, whether he relate 
the whole story in his own character, or introduce some of his 
personages to relate any part of the action that had passed 
before the poem opens. Homer follows the one method in his 
Iliad, and the other in his Odyssey ; Virgil has in this respect, 
imitated the conduct of the Odyssey ; Tasso that of the Iliad. 
The chief advantage which arises from any of the actors being 
employed to relate part of the story, is, that it allows the poet, 



5<U LECTURE XLII. 

if lie chooses it, to open with some interesting situation of 
affairs, informing us afterwards of what had passed before that 
period ; and gives him the greater liVerty of spreading out such 
parts of the subject as he is inclined to dwell upon in person, 
and of comprehending the rest within a short recital. Where 
the subject is of great extent, and comprehends the transactions 
of several years, as in the Odyssey and the iEneid, this method 
therefore seems preferable. When the subject is of smaller com 
pass, and shorter duration, as in the Iliad and the Jerusalem, 
the poet may, without disadvantage, relate the whole in his own 
person. 

In the proposition of the subject, the invocation of the muse, 
and other ceremonies of the introduction, poets may vary at 
their pleasure. It is perfectly trifling to make these little for- 
malities the object of precise rule, any farther, than that the sub- 
ject of the work should always be clearly proposed, and without 
affected or unsuitable pomp. For, according to Horace's noted 
rule, no introduction should ever set out too high, or promise 
too much, lest the author should not fulfil the expectations he 
has raised. 

What is of most importance in the tenor of the narration is, 
that it be perspicuous, animated, and enriched with all the beau- 
ties of poetry. No sort of composition requires more strength, 
dignity, and fire, than the epic poem. It is the region within 
which we look for every thing that is sublime in description, 
tender in sentiment, and bold and lively in expression; and 
therefore, though an author's pFan should be faultless, and his 
story ever so well conducted, yet, if he be feeble, or flat in style, 
destitute of affecting scenes, and deficient in poetical colouring, 
he can have no success. The ornaments which epic poetry ad- 
mits, must all be of the grave and chaste kind. Nothing that is 
loose, ludicrous or affected, finds any place there. All the ob- 
jects which it presents ought to be either great, or tender, or 
pleasing. Descriptions of disgusting or shocking objects, should 
as much as possible be avoided ; and therefore the fable of the 
Harpies, in the third book of the iEneid, and the allegory of Sin 
and Death, in the second book of Paradise Lost., had been bet- 
ter omitted in these celebrated poems. 



aa,5 



LECTURE XLTII. 

HOMER'S ILIAD AND ODYSSEY— VIRGIL'S jENEID. 

As the epic poem is universally allowed to possess the 
highest rank among poetical works, it merits a particular dis- 
cussion. Having treated of the nature of this composition, and 
the principal rules relating to it, I proceed to make some ob- 
servations on the most distinguished epic poems, ancient and 
modern. 

Homer claims, on every account, our first attention, as the 
father not only of epic poetry, but, in some measure, of poetry 
in general. Whoever sits down to read Homer, must consider 
that he is going to read the most ancient book in the world, 
next to the Bible. Without making this reflection, he cannot 
enter into the spirit, nor relish the composition of the author. 
He is not to look for the correctness and elegance of the Au- 
gustan age. He must divest himself of our modern ideas of dig- 
nity and refinement, and transport his imagination almost 
three thousand years back in the history of mankind. What he 
is to expect, is a picture of the ancient w r orld. He must 
reckon upon finding characters and manners, that retain a con- 
siderable tincture of the savage state ; moral ideas as yet im- 
perfectly formed ; and the appetites and passions of men 
brought under none of those restraints, to which, in a more 
advanced state of society, they are accustomed ; but bodily 
strength prized as one of the chief heroic endowments ; the 
preparing of a meal, and the appeasing of hunger, described 
as very interesting objects ; and the heroes boasting of them- 
selves openly, scolding one another outrageously, and glorying, 
as we should now think very indecently, over their fallen 
enemies. 

The opening of the Iliad possesses none of that sort of 
dignity, which a modern looks for in a great epic poem. It 
turns on no higher subject, than the quarrel of two chieftains 
about a female slave. The priest of Apollo beseeches Agamem- 
non to restore his daughter, who, in the plunder of a city, had 
fallen to Agamemnon's share of booty. He refuses. Apollo, at 
the prayer of his priest, sends a plague into the Grecian camp. 
The augur, when consulted, declares, that there is no way of 
appeasing Apollo, but by restoring the daughter of his priest. 
Agamemnon is enraged at the augur ; professes that he likes 



586 LECTURE XLIII. 

this slave better than his wife Clytemnestra ; but since he must 
restore her in order to save the army, insists to have another in 
her place ; and pitches upon Briseis, the slave of Achilles. Achil- 
les, as was to be expected, kindles into rage at this demand ; 
reproaches him for his rapacity and insolence, and, after giving 
him many hard names, solemnly swears, that, if he is to be thus 
treated by the general, he will withdraw his troops, and assist 
the Grecians no more against the Trojans. He withdraws ac- 
cordingly. His mother, the goddess Thetis, interests Jupiter in 
his cause ; who, to revenge the wrong which Achilles had suf- 
fered, takes part against the Greeks, and suffers them to fall 
into great and long distress ; until Achilles is pacified, and re- 
conciliation brought about between him and Agamemnon 

Such is the basis of the whole action of the Iliad. Hence 
rise all those " speciosa miracula," as Horace terms them, which 
fill that extraordinai-y poem ; and which have had the power of 
interesting almost all the nations of Europe, during every age, 
since the days of Homer. The general admiration commanded 
by a poetical plan, so very different from what any one would 
have formed in our times, ought not, upon reflection to be 
matter of surprise. For, besides that a fertile genius can enrich 
and beautify any subject on which it is employed, it is to be ob- 
served, that ancient manners, how much soever they contradict 
our present notions of dignity and refinement, afford nevertheless 
materials for poetry, superior in some respects, to those which 
are furnished by a more polished state of society. They discover 
human nature more open and undisguised, without any of those, 
studied forms of behaviour which now conceal men from one 
another. They give free scope to the strongest and most impe- 
tuous emotions of the mind, which make a better figure in de- 
scription, than calm and temperate feelings. They show us our 
native prejudices, appetites, and desires, exerting themselves 
without control. From this state of manners, joined with the 
advantage of that strong and expressive style, which, as I 
formerly observed, commonly distinguishes the compositions 
of early ages, we have ground to look for more of the bold- 
ness, ease, and freedom of native genius, in compositions of 
such a period, than in those of more civilized times. And, 
accordingly, the two great characters of the Homeric poetry 
are fire and simplicity. Let us now proceed to make some 
more particular observations on the Iliad, under the three heads 
of the subject and action, the characters, and narration of the 
poet. 



THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 581 

The subject of the Iliad must unquestionably be admitted to 
be, in the main, happily chosen. In the days of Homer, no ob- 
ject could be more splendid and dignified than the Trojan war. 
So great a confederacy of the Grecian states, under one leader, 
and the ten years' siege which they carried on against Troy, 
must have spread far abroad the renown of many military ex- 
ploits, and interested all Greece in the traditions concerning the 
heroes who had most eminently signalized themselves. Upon 
these traditions Homer grounded his poem ; and though he 
lived, as is generally believed, only two or three centuries after 
the Trojan war, yet, through the want of written records, tra- 
dition must, by this time, have fallen into the degree of ob- 
scurity most proper for poetry ; and have left him at full li- 
berty to mix as much fable as he pleased with the remains of 
true history. He has not chosen for his subject the whole 
Trojan war ; but, with great judgment, he has selected one 
part of it, the quarrel betwixt Achilles and Agamemnon, and 
the events to which that quarrel gave rise ; which, though they 
take up forty-seven days only, yet include the most interesting 
and most critical period of the war. By this management, he 
has given greater unity to what would have otherwise been an 
unconnected history of battles. He has gained one hero, or 
principal character, Achilles, who reigns throughout the work ; 
and he has shown the pernicious effect of discord among con- 
federated princes. At the same time, I admit that Homer is 
less fortunate in his subject than Virgil. The plan of the 
iEneid includes a greater compass, and a more agreeable di- 
versity of events ; whereas the Iliad is almost entirely filled with 
battles. 

The praise of high invention has in every age been given 
to Homer, with the greatest reason. The prodigious number 
of incidents, of speeches, of characters divine and human, with 
which he abounds ; the surprising variety with which he has 
diversified his battles, in the wounds and deaths, and little 
history-pieces of almost all the persons slain ; discover an in- 
vention next to boundless. But the praise of judgment is, 
in my opinion, no less due to Homer, than that of invention. 
His story is all along conducted with great art. He rises upon 
us gradually ; his heroes are brought out, one after another to 
be objects of our attention. The distress thickens, as the poem 
advances ; and every thing is so contrived as to aggrandize 
Achilles, and to render him, as the poet intended he should be, 
the capital figure. 



W8 LECTURE XLIIi. 

But that wherein Homer excels all writers is the charac- 
teristical part. Here, he is without a rival. His lively and 
spirited exhibition of characters is, in a great measure, owing to 
his being so dramatic a writer, abounding every where with 
dialogue and conversation. There is much more dialogue in 
Homer than in Virgil: or, indeed, than in any other poet. 
What Virgil informs us of by two words of narration, Homer 
brings about by a speech. We may observe, here, that this 
method of writing is more ancient than the narrative manner. 
Of this we have a clear proof in the books of the Old Testa- 
ment, which, instead of narration, abound with speeches, with 
answers and replies, upon the most familiar subjects. Thus, in 
the book of Genesis : " Joseph said unto his brethren, Whence 
come ye ? and they answered, From the land of Canaan we 
come to buy food. And Joseph said, Ye are spies ; to see the 
nakedness of the land are ye come. And they said unto him, 
Nay, my lord, but to buy food are thy servants come ; we are all 
one man's sons, we are true men, thy servants are no spies. 
And he said unto them, Nay, but to see the nakedness of the 
land ye are come. And they said, Thy servants are twelve 
brethren, the sons of one man in the land of Canaan ; and be- 
hold the youngest is this day with our father ; and one is not. 
And Joseph said unto them, This it is that I spake unto you, 
saying ye are spies. Hereby ye shall be proved ; by the life of 
Pharaoh, ye shall not go forth, except your youngest brother 
come hither," &c. Genesis, xlii. 7 — 15. Such a style as this, is 
the most simple and artless form of writing, and must, therefore, 
undoubtedly, have been the most ancient. It is copying directly 
from nature ; giving a plain rehearsal of what passed, or was 
supposed to pass, in conversation between the persons of whom 
the author treats. In progress of time, when the art of writing 
was more studied, it was thought more elegant to compress the 
substance of conversation into short distinct narrative, made by 
the poet or historian in his own person ; and to reserve direct 
speeches for solemn occasions only. 

The ancient dramatic method which Homer practised has 
some advantages, balanced with some defects. It renders com- 
position more natural and animated, and more expressive of 
manners and characters ; but withal less grave and majestic, 
and sometimes tiresome. Homer, it must be admitted, has 
carried his propensity to the making of speeches too far ; and if 
he be tedious any where, it is in these ; some of them trifling, 
and some of them plainly unseasonable. Together with the 



THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 689 

Greek vivacity, he leaves upon our minds some impression of 
the Greek loquacity also. His speeches, however, are upon the 
whole characteristic and lively ; and to them we owe, in a great 
measure, that admirable display which he has given of human 
nature. Every one who reads him, becomes familiarly and in- 
timately acquainted with his heroes. We seem to have lived 
among them, and to have conversed with them. Not only has 
he pursued the single virtue of courage through all its different 
forms and features, in his different warriors ; but some more 
delicate characters, into which courage either enters not at all, 
or but for an inconsiderable part, he has drawn with singu- 
lar art. 

How finely, for instance, has he painted the character of 
Helen, so as, notwithstanding her frailty and her crimes, to pre- 
vent her from being an odious object ! The admiration with 
which the old generals behold her, in the third book, when she 
is coming towards them, presents her to us with much dignity. 
Her veiling herself and shedding tears, her confusion in the 
presence of Priam, her grief and self-accusations at the sight of 
Menelaus, her upbraiding Paris for his cowardice, and, at the 
same time, her returning fondness for him, exhibit the most 
striking features of that mixed female character, which we partly 
condemn, and partly pity. Homer never introduces her, without 
making her say something to move our compassion ; while, at 
the same time, he takes care to contrast her character with that 
of a virtuous matron, in the chaste and tender Andromache. 

Paris himself, the author of all the mischief, is characterised 
with the utmost propriety. He is, as we should expect him, a 
mixture of gallantry and effeminacy. He retreats from Mene- 
laus, on his first appearance ; but, immediately afterwards, enters 
into single combat with him. He is a great master of civility, 
remarkably courteous in his speeches ; and receives all there- 
proofs of his brother Hector with modesty and deference. He 
is described as a person of elegance and taste. He was the 
architect of his own palace. He is, in the sixth book, found by 
Hector, burnishing and dressing up his armour ; and issues 
forth to battle with a peculiar gaiety and ostentation of appear- 
ance which is illustrated by one of the finest comparisons in all 
the Iliad, that of the horse prancing to the river. 

Homer has been blamed for making his hero Achilles of too 
brutal and unamiable a character. But I am inclined to think, 
that injustice is commonly done to Achilles, upon the credit 



590 LECTURE XLIII. 

of two lines of Horace, who has certainly overloaded his 
character : 

Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, 

Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arrogct armis.— A. P. 121. 

Achilles is passionate indeed, to a great degree ; but he is 
far from being a contemner of laws and justice. In the contest 
with Agamemnon, though he carries it on with too much heat, 
yet he has reason on his side. He was notoriously wronged ; 
but he submits, and resigns Briseis peaceably, when the heralds 
come to demand her; only he will fight no longer under the 
command of a leader who had affronted him. Besides his won- 
derful bravery and contempt of death, he has several other 
qualities of a hero. He is open and sincere. He loves his sub- 
jects, and respects the gods. He is distinguished by strong 
friendships and attachments ; he is, throughout, high-spirited, 
gallant, and honourable ; and, allowing for a degree of ferocity 
which belonged to the times, and enters into the characters of 
most of Homer's heroes, he is, upon the whole, abundantly fitted 
to raise high admiration, though not pure esteem. 

Under the head of characters, Homer's gods, or his ma- 
chinery, according to the critical term, come under considera- 
tion. The gods make a great figure in the Iliad ; much greater 
indeed than they do in the iEneid, or in any other epic poem ; 
and hence Homer has become the standard of poetic theology. 
Concerning machinery in general, I delivered my sentiments in 
the former lecture. Concerning Homer's machinery, in particu- 
lar, we must observe, that it was not his own invention. Like 
every other good poet, he unquestionably followed the tradi- 
tions of his country. The age of the Trojan war approached to 
the age of the gods and demi-gods in Greece. Several of the 
heroes concerned in that war were reputed to be the children o . 
these gods. Of course the traditionary tales relating to them, 
and to the exploits of that age, were blended with the fables of 
the deities. These popular legends Homer very properly 
adopted , though it is perfectly absurd to infer from this, that 
therefore poets arising in succeeding ages, and writing on quite 
different subjects, are obliged to follow the same system of 
machinery. 

In the hands of Homer, it produces, on the whole, a noble 
effect ; it is always gay and amusing ; often lofty and magnifi- 
cent. It introduces into his poem a great number of person- 
ages, almost as much distinguished by characters as his human 



THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 601 

actors. It diversifies his battles greatly by the intervention of 
the gods ; and by frequently shifting the scene from earth to 
heaven, it gives an agreeable relief to the mind, in the midst of 
so much blood and slaughter. Homer's gods, it must be con 
fessed, though they be always lively am' animated figures, yet 
sometimes want dignity. The conjugal contentions between 
Juno and Jupiter, with which he entertains us, and the indecent 
squabbles he describes among the inferior deities, according as 
they take different sides with the contending parties, would be 
very improper models for any modern poet to imitate. In apo- 
logy for Homer, however, it must be remembered, that accord- 
ing to the fables of those days, the gods are but one remove 
above the condition of men. They have all the human passions- 
They drink and feast, and are vulnerable like men ; they have 
children and kinsmen, in the opposite armies ; and except that 
they are immortal, that they have houses on the top of Olympus, 
and winged chariots, in which they are often flying down to 
earth, and then reascending, in order to feast on nectar and 
ambrosia, they are in truth no higher beings than the human 
heroes, and therefore very fit to take part in their contentions. 
At the same time, though Homer so frequently degrades his di- 
vinities, yet he knows how to make them appear, in some con- 
junctures, with the most awful majesty. Jupiter, the father of 
gods and men, is for the most part introduced with great dignity ; 
and several of the most sublime conceptions in the Iliad are 
founded on the appearances of Neptune, Minerva, and Apollo, 
on great occasions. 

With regard to Homer's style and manner of writing, it is 
easy, natural, and in the highest degree animated. It will be 
admired by such only as relish ancient simplicity, and can make 
allowance for certain negligences and repetitions, which greater 
refinement in the art of writing has taught succeeding, though 
far inferior, poets to avoid. For Homer is the most simple in 
his style of all the great poets, and resembles most the style of 
the poetical parts of the Old Testament. They can have no 
conception of his manner, who are acquainted with him in Mr. 
Pope's translation only. An excellent poetical performance that 
translation is, and faithful in the main to the original. In some 
places, it may be thought to have even improved Homer. It has 
certainly softened some of his rudenesses, "and added delicacy and 
grace to some of his sentiments. But withal, it is no other than 
Homer modernized. In the midst of the elegance and luxuriancy 
of Mr. Pope's language, we lose sight of the old bard's sim- 



aoa LECTURE XLIIT. 

plicity. I know indeed no author, to whom it is more difficult to 
do justice in a translation, than Homer. As the plainness of his 
diction, were it literally rendered, would often appear flat in any 
modern language, so in the midst of that plainness, and not a 
little heightened by it, there are every where breaking forth 
upon us flashes of native fire, of sublimity and beauty, which 
hardly any language, except his own, could preserve. His ver- 
sification has been universally acknowledged to be uncommonly 
melodious ; and to carry, beyond that of any poet, a resem- 
blance in the sound to the sense and meaning. 

In narration, Homer is, at all times, remarkably concise, 
which renders him lively and agreeable ; though in his speeches, 
as I have before admitted, sometimes tedious. He is every where 
descriptive ; and descriptive by means of those well-chosen par- 
ticulars, which form the excellency of description. Virgil gives 
us the nod of Jupiter with great magnificence : 

A nnu it, et totum nutu tremefecit Olyrapum. — ix. 106. 

But Homer, in describing the same thing, gives us the sable 
eye-brows of Jupiter bent, and his ambrosial curls shaken, at 
the moment when he gives the nod ; and thereby renders the 
figure more natural and lively. Whenever he seeks to draw our 
attention to some interesting object, he particularizes it so 
happily, as to paint it in a manner to our sight. The shot of 
Pandarus' arrow, which broke the truce between the two armies, 
as related in the fourth book, may be given for an instance ; and 
above all, the admirable interview of Hector with Andromache, 
in the sixth book ; where all the circumstances of conjugal and 
parental tenderness, the child affrighted with the view of his 
father's helmet and crest, and clinging to the nurse ; Hector put- 
ting off his helmet, taking the child into his arms, and offering up 
a prayer for him to the gods ; Andromache receiving back the 
child with a smile of pleasure, and, at the same instant, bursting 
into tears, Saicpuot v yiXaaaaa, as it is finely expressed in the origi- 
nal, form the most natural and affecting picture that can possibly 
be imagined. 

In the description of battles, Homer particularly excels. He 
works up the hurry, the terror, and confusion of them in so mas- 
terly a manner, as to place the reader in the very midst of the 
engagement. It is here, that the fire of his genius is most highly 
displayed ; insomuch that Virgil's battles, and indeed those of 
most other poets, are cold and inanimated in comparisop of Ho- 
mer'a. 



THE ODYSSEY OF HOMER. 593 

With regard to similes, no poet abounds so much with them. 
Several of them are beyond doubt extremely beautiful : such as 
those of the fires in the Trojan camp compared to the moon and 
stars by night; Paris going forth to battle, to the war-horse 
prancing to the river; and Euphorbus slain, to the flowering 
shrub cut down by a sudden blast : all which are among the 
finest poetical passages that are any where to be found. I am 
not, however, of opinion that Homer's comparisons, taken in 
general, are his greatest beauties. They come too thick upon 
us ; and often interrupt the train of his narration or description. 
The resemblance on which they are founded, is sometimes not 
clear ; and the objects whence they are taken are too uniform. 
His lions, bulls, eagles^ and herds of sheep recur too frequently ; 
and the allusions in some of his similes, even after the allow- 
ances that are to be made for ancient manners, must be admitted 
to be debasing.* 

My observations, hitherto, have been made upon the Iliad 
only. It is necessary to take some notice of the Odyssey also. 
Longinus's criticism upon it is not without foundation, that 
Homer may in this poem be compared to the setting sun, whose 
grandeur still remains, without the heat of his meridian beam.?. 
It wants the vigour and sublimity of the Iliad ; yet, at the same 
time, possesses so many beauties, as to be justly entitled to 
high praise. It is a very amusing poem, and has much greater 
variety than the Iliad ; it contains many interesting stories, and 
beautiful descriptions. We see every where the same descrip- 
tive and dramatic genius, and the same fertility of invention 

The severest critic upon Homer in modern times, M. la Motte, admits all 
that his admirers urge for the superiority of his genius and talents as a poet: 
" C'etoit un genie naturellement poetique, ami des fables et des merveilleux, tt 
porte en general a l'imitation, soit des objets de la nature, soit des senthnens 
ct des actions des hommes. II avoit l'esprit vaste et fecond ; plus eleve que 
dclicat, plus naturel qu'ingenieux, et plus amoureux de 1'abondancc que du 
choix. — II a saisi, par une superiorite de gout, les premieres idees de 1'eAoqixence 
dans toutes les genres ; il a parle le langage de toutes les passions ; et il a du 
moins onvert aux ecrivains qui doivent le suivre une infinite de routes, qu'il ne 
restoit plus qu'a applanir. 11 y a apparence qu'en qnelques temps qu'Homere 
eut vecu, il eut ete, du moins, le plus grand poete de son pays : et a ne le prendre 
que dans ce sens, on peut dire, qu'il est le mattre de. ceux memes qui l'ont 
surpasse." — Discours sur Homere. CEuvres de la Motte, tome ii. After these 
high praises of the author, he indeed endeavours to bring the merit of the Iliad 
verylow. But his principal objections turn on the debasing ideas which are 
there given of the gods, the gross characters and manners of the heroes, and the 
imperfect morality of the sentiments ; which, as Voltaire observes, is like accus- 
ing a painter for having drawn his figures in the dress of the times. Homer 
painted his gods, such as popular tradition then represented them ; and describes 
6uch characters and sentiments, as he found among those with whom he lived. 

2 Q • 



594, LECTURE XLIII. 

that appears in the other work. It descends indeed from the 
dignity of gods, and heroes, and warlike achievements ; but in 
recompence, we have more pleasing pictures of ancient man- 
ners. Instead of that ferocity which reigns in the Iliad, the 
Odyssey presents us with the most amiable images of hos- 
pitality and humanity ; entertains us with many a wonderful 
adventure, and many a landscape of nature ; and instructs us 
by a constant vein of morality and virtue, which runs through 
the poem. 

At the same time, there are some defects which must be 
acknowledged in the Odyssey. Many scenes in it fall below 
the majesty which we naturally expect in an epic poem. The 
last twelve books, after Ulysses is landed in Ithaca, are, in 
several parts, tedious and languid ; and though the discovery 
which Ulysses makes of himself to his nurse Euryclea, and his 
interview with Penelope, before she knows him, in the nine- 
teenth book, are tender and affecting, yet the poet does not 
seem happy in the great anagnorisis, or the discovery of Ulysses 
to Penelope. She is too cautious and distrustful, and we are 
disappointed of the surprise of joy, which we expected on that 
high occasion. 

After having said so much of the father of epic poetry, it is 
now time to proceed to Virgil, who has a character clearly 
marked, and quite distinct from that of Homer. As the distin- 
guishing excellencies of the Iliad are, simplicity and fire ; those 
of the iEneid are, elegance and tenderness. Virgil is, beyond 
doubt, less animated and less sublime than Homer; but, to 
counterbalance this, he has fewer negligences, greater variety 
and supports more of a correct and regular dignity, throughout 
his work. 

When we begin to read the Iliad, we find ourselves in the 
region of the most remote, and even unrefined antiquity. When 
we open the ^Ineid, we discover all the correctness, and the 
improvements, of the Augustan age. We meet with no conten- 
tions of heroes about a female slave, no violent scolding, nor 
abusive language ; but the poem opens with the utmost magnifi- 
cence ; with Juno, forming designs for preventing .52neas's 
establishment in Italy, and JEneas himself presented to us with 
all his fleet in the middle of a storm, which is described in the 
highest style of poetry. 

The subject of the IEneid is extremely happy ; still more so, 
m my opinion, than either of Homer's poems. As nothing 
oould be more noble, nor carry more of epic dignity, so nothing 



THE JENEID OF VIRGIL. 605 

could be more flattering and interesting to the Roman people, 
than Virgil's deriving the origin of their state from so famous a 
hero as iEneas. The object was splendid in itself; it gave the 
poet a theme, taken from the ancient traditionary history of his 
own country; it allowed him to connect his subject with 
Homer's stories, and to adopt all his mythology ; it afforded 
him the opportunity of frequently glancing at all the future 
great exploits of the Romans, and of describing Italy, and the 
very territory of Rome, in its ancient and fabulous state. The 
establishment of iEneas, constantly traversed by Juno, leads to 
a great diversity of events, of voyages, and wars ; and furnishes 
a proper intermixture of the incidents of peace with martial ex- 
ploits. Upon the whole, I believe, there is no where to be 
found so complete a model of an epic fable, or story, as Virgil's 
/Eneid. I see no foundation for the opinion, entertained by 
some critics, that the iEneid is to be considered as an allegorical 
poem, which carries a constant reference to the character and 
reign of Augustus Cassar ; or, that Virgil's main design in com- 
posing the JEneid, was to reconcile the Romans to the govern- 
ment of that prince, who is supposed to be shadowed out under 
the character of iEneas. Virgil, indeed, like the other poets of 
that age, takes every opportunity which his subject affords him 
of paying court to Augustus.* But, to imagine that he carried 
a political plan in his view through the whole poem, appears to 
me no more than a fanciful refinement. He had sufficient mo- 
tives, as a poet, to determine him to the choice of his subject, 
from its t)eing, in itself, both great and pleasing ; from its being 
suited to his genius, and its being attended with the peculiar ad- 
vantages, which I mentioned above, for the full display of poetical 
talents. 

Unity of action is perfectly preserved ; as, from beginning, 
to end, one main object is always kept in view, the settlement of 
iEneas in Italy, by the order of the gods. As the story com- 
prehends the transactions of several years, part of the transac- 
tions are very properly thrown into a recital made by the hero. 
The episodes are linked with sufficient connexion to the main 
subject; and the nodus, or intrigue of the poem, is, according to 
the plan of ancient machinery, happily formed. The wrath of 
Juno, who opposes herself to the Trojan settlement in Italy, 
gives rise to all the difficulties which obstruct vEneas's under- 
taking, and connects the human with the celestial operations, 

• A3 particularly in that noted passage of the sixth bonk, 1. 792. 
Hie vir, hie est, tibi qium pronntti sapius auclis, &e. 

2 Q 2 



508 LECTURE XL1II. 

throughout the whole work. Hence arise the tempest which 
throws iEneas upon the shore of Africa ; the passion of Dido, 
who endeavours to detain him at Cartilage ; and the efforts of 
Turnus, who opposes him in war. Till, at last, upon a compo- 
sition made with Jupiter, that the Trojan name shall be for ever 
sunk in the Latin, Juno foregoes her resentment, and the hero 
becomes victorious. 

In these main points, Virgil has conducted his work with 
great propriety, and shewn his art and judgment. But the ad 
miration due to so eminent a poet must not prevent us from re- 
marking some other particulars in which he has failed. First, 
there are scarce any characters marked in the iEneid. Tn this 
respect it is insipid, when compared to the Iliad, which is full of 
characters and life. Achates, and Cloanthus, and Gyas, and 
the rest of the Trojan heroes who accompanied iEneas into 
Italy, are so many undistinguished figures, who are in no way 
made known to us, either by any sentiments which they utter, 
or any memorable exploits which they perform. Even iEneas 
himself is not a very interesting hero. He is described, in- 
deed, as pious and brave ; but his character is not marked with 
any of those strokes that touch the heart ; it is a sort of cold and 
tame character ; and throughout his behaviour to Dido, in the 
fourth book, especially in the speech which he maKes after she 
suspected his intention of leaving her, there appears a certain 
hardness, and want of relenting, which is far from rendering 
him amiable.* Dido's own character is by much the j?est sup- 
ported in the whole iEneid. The warmth of her passions, the 
keenness of her indignation and resentment, and the violence of 
her whole character, exhibit a figure greatly more animated than 
any other which Virgil has drawn. 

Besides this defect of character in the iEneid, the distribu- 
tion and management of the subject are, in some respects, ex- 
ceptionable. The iEneid, it is true, must be considered with 
the indulgence due to a work not thoroughly completed. The 
six last books are said not to have received the finishing hand 
of the author ; and for this reason, he ordered, by his will, the 
iEneid to be committed to the flames. But though this may ac- 
count for incorrectness of execution, it does not apologize for a 
falling off in the subject, which seems to take place in the latter 
part of the work. The wars with the Latins are inferior, in 

• Nnm fletu ingemuit nostro? num lumina flexit? 
Num lacrymas victus dedit, «iut raiseratus amantem est? 

JEn. iv. 309. 



THE &NEID OF V1HGIL. 597 

point of dignity, to the more interesting objects which had be- 
fore been presented to us, in the destruction of Troy, the intrigue 
with Dido, and the descent into hell. And in those Italian wars, 
there is, perhaps, a more material fault still, in the conduct of 
the story. The reader, as Voltaire has observed, is tempted to 
take part with Turnus against iEneas. Turnus, a brave young 
prince, in love with Lavinia, his near relation, is destined for 
her by general consent, and highly favoured by her mother. 
Lavinia herself discovers no reluctance to the match : when there 
arrives a stranger, a fugitive from a distant region, who had 
never seen her, and who, founding a claim to an establishment 
in Italy upon oracles and prophecies, embroils the country in 
war, kills the lover of Lavinia, and proves the occasion of her 
mother's death. Such a plan is not fortunately laid, for dis- 
posing us to be favourable to the hero of the poem ; and the 
defect, might have been easily remedied, by the poet's making- 
/Eneas, instead of distressing Lavinia, deliver her from the per- 
secution of some rival who was odious to her, and to the whole 
country. 

But, notwithstanding these defects, which it was necessary 
to remark, Virgil possesses beauties which have justly drawn 
the admiration of ages, and which, to this day, hold the balance 
in equilibrium between his fame and that of Homer. The prin- 
cipal and distinguishing excellency of Virgil, and which, in my 
opinion, he possesses beyond all poets, is tenderness. Nature 
had endowed him with exquisite sensibility ; he felt every af- 
fecting circumstance, in the scenes he describes ; and, by a sin- 
gle stroke, he knows how to reach the heart. This, in an epic 
poem, is the merit next to sublimity ; and puts it in an author's 
power to render his composition extremely interesting to all 
readers. 

The chief beauty of this kind in the Iliad, is, the interview of 
Hector with Andromache. But in the iEneid, there are many 
such. The second book is one of the greatest master-pieces 
that ever was executed by any hand ; and Virgil seems to have 
put forth there the whole strength of his genius, as the subject 
afforded a variety of scenes, both of the awful and tender kind. 
The images of horror, presented by a city burnt and sacked in 
the night, are finely mixed with pathetic and affecting incidents. 
Nothing, in any poet, is more beautifully described than the death 
of old Priam ; and the family-pieces of the iEneid, Anchises, 
and Creusa, are as tender as can be conceived. In many pas- 
sages of the iEneid, the same pathetic spirit shines ; and they 



69H LECTURE XLIII. 

have been always the favourite passages in that work. The 
fourth book, for instance, relating the unhappy passion and death 
of Dido, has been always most justly admired, and abounds with 
beauties of the highest kind. The interview of iEneas with 
Andromache and Helenus, in the third book ; the episodes of 
Pallas and Evander, of Nisus and Euryalus, of Lausus and Me- 
zentius, in the Italian wars, are all striking instances of the poet's 
power of raising the tender emotions. For we must observe, 
that though the iEneid be an unequal poem, and, in some 
places, languid, yet there are beauties scattered through it all ; 
and not a few, even in the last six books. The best and 
most finished books, upon the whole, are, the first, the se- 
cond, the fourth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, and the 
twelfth. 

Virgil's battles are far inferior to Homer's in point of fire 
and sublimity : but there is one important episode, the descent 
into hell, in which he has outdone Homer in the Odyssey, by 
many degrees. There is nothing in all antiquity equal, in its 
kind, to the sixth book of the iEneid. The scenery, and the ob- 
jects, are great and striking ; and fill the mind with that solemn 
awe, which was to be expected from a view of the invisible world. 
There runs through the whole description a certain philosophi- 
cal sublime ; which Virgil's Platonic genius, and the enlarged 
ideas of the Augustan age, enabled him to support with a degree 
of majesty, far beyond what the rude ideas of Homer's age 
suffered him to attain. With regard to the sweetness and beauty 
of Virgil's numbers, throughout his whole works, they are so 
well known, that it were needless to enlarge in the praise 
of them. 

Upon the whole, as to the comparative merit of these two 
great princes of epic poetry, Homer and Virgil ; the former must, 
undoubtedly, be admitted to be the greater genius ; the latter, 
to be the more correct writer. Homer was an original in his 
art, and discovers both the beauties and the defects which are 
to be expected in an original author, compared with those who 
succeed him ; more boldness, more nature and ease, more subli- 
mity and force ; but greater irregularities and negligences in 
composition. Virgil has, all along, kept his eye upon Homer ; 
in many places, he has not so much imitated, as he has literally 
translated him. The description of the storm, for instance, in 
the first ^Eneid, and iEneas's speech upon that occasion, are 
translations from the fifth book of the Odyssey ; not to mention 
almost all the similes of Virgil, which are no other than copiea 



IJICAN'S PHARSALIA. 690 

of those of Homer. The pre-eminence in invention, therefore, 
must, beyond doubt, be ascribed to Homer. As to the pre- 
eminence in judgment, though many critics are disposed to give 
it to Virgil, yet, in my opinion, it hangs doubtful. In Homer, 
we discern all the Greek vivacity ; in Virgil, all the Roman 
stateliness. Homer's imagination is by much the most rich and 
copious ; Virgil's, the most chaste and correct. The strength of 
the former lies in his power of warming the fancy ; that of the 
latter, in his power of touching the heart. Homer's style is 
more simple and animated ; Virgil's more elegant and uniform. 
The first has, on many occasions, a sublimity to which the latter 
never attains ; but the latter, in return, never sinks below a cer- 
tain degree of epic dignity, which cannot so clearly be pro- 
nounced of the former. Not, however, to detract from the 
admiration due to both these great poets, most of Homer's de- 
fects may reasonably be imputed, not to his genius, but to the 
manners of the age in which he lived ; and for the feeble pas- 
sages of the iEneid, this excuse ought to be admitted, that the 
JEaeid was left an unfinished work. 



LECTURE XLIV. 

LUCAN'S PHAUSALI4— TASSO'S JERUSALEM— CAMOENS' LUSIAD— 
FENELON'S TELEMACHUS — VOLTAIRE'S HENRIADE — MIL- 
TON'S PARADISE LOST. 

After Homer and Virgil, the next great epic poet of 
ancient times, who presents himself, is Lucan. He is a poet 
who deserves our attention on account of a very peculiar mix- 
ture of great beauties with great faults. Though his Pharsalia 
discover too little invention, and be conducted in too historical 
a manner, to be accounted a perfectly regular epic poem, yet it 
were the mere squeamishness of criticism, to exclude it from the 
epic class. The boundaries, as I formerly remarked, are far 
from being ascertained by any such precise limit, that we 
must refuse the epic name to a poem, which treats of great and 
heroic adventures, because it is not exactly conformable to tho 
plans of Homer and Virgil. The subject of the Pharsalia 
carries, undoubtedly, all the epic grandeur and dignity; nei- 
ther does it want unity of object, viz. the triumph of Caesar 
over the Roman liberty. As it stands at present, it is in- 



GOO LECTURE XLIV. 

deed, brought to no proper close. But either time has deprived 
'us of the last books, or it has been left by the author an incom- 
plete work. 

Though Lucan's subject be abundantly heroic, yet I cannot 
reckon him happy in the choice of it. It has two defects. The 
one is, that civil wars, especially when as fierce and cruel as 
those of the Romans, present too many shocking objects to be 
fit for epic poetry, and give odious and disgusting views of hu- 
man nature. Gallant and honourable achievements furnish a 
more proper theme for the epic muse. But Lucan's genius, it 
must be confessed, seems to delight in savage scenes ; he dwells 
upon them too much ; and not content with those which his sub- 
ject naturally furnished, he goes out of his way to introduce a 
long episode of Marius and Sylla's proscriptions, which abounds 
with all the forms of atrocious cruelty. 

The other defect of Lucan's subject is, its being too near 
the times in which he lived. This is a circumstance, as I 
observed in a former lecture, always unfortunate for a poet; 
as it deprives him of the assistance of fiction and machinery ; 
and thereby renders his work less splendid and amusing. Lucas 
has submitted to this disadvantage of his subject ; and in doing 
co, has acted with more propriety, than if he had made an un- 
seasonable attempt to embellish it with machinery ; for the fables 
of the gods would have made a very unnatural mixture with the 
exploits of Caesar and Pompey ; and instead of raising, would 
have diminished the dignity of such recent and well-known 
facts. 

With regard to characters, Lucan draws them with spirit 
and with force. But, though Pompey be his professed hero, lie 
does not succeed in interesting us much in his favour. Pompey 
is not made to possess any high distinction, either for magnani- 
mity in sentiment, or bravery in action ; but, on the contrary, is 
always eclipsed by the superior abilities of Cassar. Cato is, in 
truth, Lucan's favourite character, and wherever he introduces 
him, he appears to rise above himself. Some of the noblest and 
most conspicuous passages in the work, are such as relate to 
Cato ; either speeches put into his mouth, or descriptions of his 
behaviour. His speech in particular to Labienus, who urged 
him to inquire at the oracle of Jupiter Ammon, concerning the 
issue of the war (book ix. 564,) deserves to be remarked, as 
equal, for moral sublimity, to any thing that is to be found in 
all antiquity. 

In the conduct of the story, our author has attached himself 



LUCAN'S PIIARSALIA. 601 

too much to chronological order. This renders the thread of his 
narration broken and interrupted, and makes him hurry us too 
often from place to place. He is too digressive also ; frequently- 
turning aside from his subject, to give us, sometimes, geographi- 
cal descriptions of a country; sometimes, philosophical disqui- 
sitions concerning natural objects ; as, concerning the African 
serpents in the ninth book, and the sources of the Nile in the 
tenth. 

There are in the Pharsalia, several very poetical and spirited 
descriptions. But the author's chief strength does not lie either 
in narration or description. His narration is often dry and 
harsh : his descriptions are often over-wrought, and employed 
too upon disagreeable objects. His principal merit consists in 
his sentiments, which are generally noble and striking, and ex- 
pressed in that glowing and ardent manner, which peculiarly 
distinguishes him. Lucan is the most philosophical, and the 
most public-spirited poet of all antiquity. He was the nephew 
of the famous Seneca, the philosopher ; was himself a stoic ; 
and the spirit of that philosophy breathes throughout his poem. 
We must observe, too, that he is the only ancient epic poet 
whom the subject of his poem really and deeply interested. 
Lucan recounted no fiction. He was a Roman, and had felt all 
the direful effects of the Roman civil wars, and of that severe 
despotism which succeeded the loss of liberty. His high and 
bold spirit made him enter deeply into this subject, and kindle, 
on many occasions, into the most real warmth. Hence, he 
abounds in exclamations and apostrophes, which are almost al- 
ways well-timed, and supported with a vivacity and fire that do 
him no small honour. 

But it is the fate of this poet, that his beauties can never be 
mentioned, without their suggesting his blemishes also. As his 
principal excellency is a lively and glowing genius, which ap- 
pears sometimes in his descriptions, and very often in his senti- 
ments, his great defect in both is, want of moderation. He 
carries every thing to an extreme. He knows not where to stop. 
From an effort to aggrandize his objects, he becomes tumid and 
unnatural : and it frequently happens, that where the second 
line of one of his descriptions is sublime, the third, in which he 
meant to rise still higher, is perfectly bombast. Lucan lived in 
an age, when the schools of the declaimers had begun to corrupt 
the eloquence and taste of Rome. He was not free from the in- 
fection ; and too often, instead of showing the genius of the poet, 
betrays the spirit of the declaimer. 



G02 



LECTURE XLIV. 



On the whole, however, he is an author of lively and ori- 
ginal genius. His sentiments are so high, and his fire, on occa- 
sions, so great, as to atone for many of his defects ; and 
passages may be produced from him, which are inferior to none 
in any poet whatever. The characters, for instance, which he 
draws of Pompey and Caesar in the first book, are masterly ; 
and the comparison of Pompey to the aged decaying oak, is 
highly poetical: 

totus popularibus auris 

Impelli, plausuque sui gaudere theatri ; 

Nee reparare novas vires, mnltumque priori 

Credere fortunse ; stat inagni nominis umbra. 

Qnalis, frugifero querens sublimis in agro 

Exsuvias veteres populi sacrataque gestans 

Dona ducum; nee jam validis radicibus barrens, 

Pondere fixa suo est ; nudosque per aera ramos 

Efiundens, trunco, non frondibus, efficit umbrara. 

At, quamvis primo nutet casurasnb Euro, 

Et circum silvaB firmo se robore tollant, 

Sola tamen colitur. Sed non in Caesarc tantum 

Nomen erat, nee fama ducis, sed nescia virtus 

Stare loco, solusque pudor non vincere bello ; 

Acer et indomitus.* L. i. 1 32. 



'' With gifts and liberal bounty sought for fame, 
And lov'd to hear the vulgar shout his name ; 
In his own theatre rejoie'd to sit, 
Amidst the noisy praises of the pit. 
Careless of future ills that might betide, 
No aid he sought to prop his falling side. 
But on his former fortune much rely'd. 
Still seem'd he to possess, and fill his place ; 
But stood the shadow of what once he was. 
So, in the field with Ceres' bounty spread, 
Uprears some ancient oak his rev'rend head : 
Chaplets and sacred gifts his boughs adorn, 
And spoils of war by mighty heroes worn ; 
But the first vigour of his root now gone, 
He stands dependent on his weight alone ; 
All bare his naked branches are display'd, 
And with his leafless trunk he forms a shade 
Yet, though the winds his ruin daily threat, 
As every blast would heave him from his seat; 
Though thousand fairer trees the field supplies, 
That, rich in youthful verdure, round him rise, 
Fix'd in his ancient seat, he yields to none, 
And wears the honours of the grove alone. 
But Caesar's greatness, and his strength, was more 
Than past renown and antiquated power ; 
'Twas not the fame of what he once had been, 
Or tales in old records or annals seen ; 
But 'twas a valour restless, unconfin'd, 
Which no success could state, nor limits bind ; 
'Twas shame, a soldier's shame untaught to yield, 
That blnsh'd for nothing but an til-fought field."— Row e. 



TASSO'S JERUSALEM DELIVERED. if02 

But when we consider the whole execution of his poem, we 
are obliged to pronounce, that his poetica* fire was not under 
the government of either sound judgment or correct taste. His 
genius had strength, but not tenderness ; nothing of what might 
be called amenity, or sweetness. In his style, there is abun- 
dance of force ; but a mixture of harshness, and frequently of 
obscurity, occasioned by his desire of expressing himself in a 
pointed and unusual manner. Compared with Virgil, he may 
be allowed to have more fire and higher sentiments ; but in every 
thing else, falls infinitely below him, particularly in purity, ele- 
gance, and tenderness. 

As Statius and Silius Italicus, though they be poets of the 
epic class, are too inconsiderable for particular criticism, I pro- 
ceed next to Tasso, the most distinguished epic poet in mo- 
dern ages. 

His Jerusalem Delivered, was published in the year 1574. It 
is a poem regularly and strictly epic, in its whole construction ; 
and adorned with all the beauties that belong to that species of 
composition. The subject is, the recovery of Jerusalem from 
the infidel? by the united powers of Christendom ; which, in it- 
self, and more especially according to the ideas of Tasso's age, 
was a splendid, venerable, and heroic enterprise. The opposi- 
tion of the Christians to the Saracens, forms an interesting con- 
trast. Th e subject produces none of those fierce and shocking 
scenes of civil discord, which hurt the mind in Lucan, but ex- 
hibits the efforts of zeal and bravery, inspired by an honourable 
object. The share which religion possesses in the enterprise, 
both tends to render it more august, and opens a natural 
field for machinery, and sublime description. The action too 
lies in a country, and at a period of time, sufficiently remote to 
allow an intermixture of fabulous tradition and fiction with true 
history. 

In the conduct of the story, Tasso has shown a rich and fer- 
tile invention, which, in a poet, is a capital quality. He is full 
of events ; and those too , abundantly various, and diversified in 
their kind. He never allows us to be tired by mere war and 
fighting. He frequently shifts the scene ; and, from camps and 
battles, transports us to more pleasing objects. Sometimes 
the solemnities of religion ; sometimes the intrigues of love ; at 
other times, the adventures of a journey, or even the incidents 
of pastoral life, relieve and entertain the reader. At the same 
time, the whole work is artfully connected ; and while there ia 
much variety in the parts, there is perfect unity in the plan. The 



004 LECTURE XL1V. 

recovery of Jerusalem is the object kept in view through the 
whole, and with it the poem dose3. All the episodes, if we ex- 
cept that of Olindo and Sophronia, in the second book, on 
which I formerly passed a censure, are sufficienty related to 
the main subject of the poem. 

The poem is enlivened with a variety of characters, and 
those too both clearly marked and well supported. Godfrey 
the leader of the enterprise, prudent, moderate, brave ; Tancred, 
amorous, generous, and gallant, and well contrasted with the 
fierce and brutal Argantes ; Rinaldo, (who is properly the hero 
of the poem, and is in part copied after Homer's Achilles,) pas- 
sionate and resentful, seduced by the allurements of Armida ; 
but a personage, on the whole, of much zeal, honour, and 
heroism. The brave and high-minded Solyman, the tender 
Erminia, the artful and violent Armida, the masculine Clorinda, 
are all of them well drawn and animated figures. In the charac- 
teristical part, Tasso is indeed remarkably distinguished ; he is > 
in this respect, superior to Virgil ; and yields to no poet except 
Homer. 

He abounds very much with machinery ; and in this part of 
the work his merit is more dubious. Wherever celestial beings 
are made to interpose, his machinery is noble. God looking 
down upon the hosts, and, on different occasions, sending an 
angel to check the Pagans, and to rebuke the evil spirits, pro- 
duces a sublime effect. The description of Hell, too, with the 
appearance and speech of Satan, in the beginning of the fourth 
book, is extremely striking ; and plainly has been imitated by 
Milton, though he must be allowed to have improved upon it. 
But the devils, the enchanters, and the conjurors, act too great 
a part throughout Tasso's poem; and form a sort of dark and 
gloomy machinery, not pleasing to the imagination. The en- 
chanted wood, on which the nodus, or intrigue of the poem, is 
made in a great measure to depend; the messengers sent in 
quest of Rinaldo, in order that he may break the charm ; their 
being conducted by a hermit to a cave in the centre of the 
earth ; the wonderful voyage which they make to the Fortunate 
Islands ; and their recovering Rinaldo from the charms of 
Armida and voluptuousness ; are scenes which, though very 
amusing, and described with the highest beauty of poetry, yet 
must be confessed to carry the marvellous to a degree of extra- 
vagance. 

in general, that for which Tasso is most liable to censure, 
is a certain romantic vein, which runs through many of the ad- 



TASSOS JERUSALEM DELIVERED. COS 

ventures and incidents of his poem. The objects which he pre- 
sents to us, are always great ; but, sometimes, too remote from 
probability. He retains somewhat of the taste of his age, 
which was not reclaimed from an extravagant admiration of the 
stories of knight-errantry ; stories, which the wild, but rich and 
agreeable imagination of Ariosto had raised into fresh reputation. 
In apology, however, for Tasso, it may be said, that he is not 
more marvellous and romantic than either Homer or Virgil. 
All the difference is, that in the one we find the romance of 
paganism, in the other, that of chivalry. 

With all the beauties of description and of poetical style, 
Tasso remarkably abounds. Both his descriptions and his 
style are much diversified, and well suited to each other. In 
describing magnificent objects, his style is firm and majestic ; 
when he descends to gay and pleasing ones, such as Erminia's 
pastoral retreat in the seventh book, and the arts and beauty of 
Armida in the fourth book, it is soft and insinuating. Both 
those descriptions, which I have mentioned, are exquisite in 
their kind. His battles are animated, and very properly varied 
in the incidents ; inferior however to Homer's, in point of spirit 
and fire. 

In his sentiments, Tasso is not so happy as in his descrip- 
tions. It is indeed rather by actions, characters, and descrip- 
tions, that he interests us, than by the sentimental part of the 
work. He is far inferior to Virgil in tenderness. When he 
aims at being pathetic and sentimental in his speeches, he is apt 
to become artificial and strained. 

With regard to points and conceits, with which he has often 
been reproached, the censure has been carried too far. Affecta- 
tion is by no means the general character of Tasso's manner, 
which, upon the whole, is masculine, strong, and correct. On 
some occasions indeed, especially, as I just now observed, when 
he seeks to be tender, he degenerates into forced and unnatural 
ideas ; but these are far from being so frequent or common as 
has been supposed. Threescore or fourscore lines retrenched 
from the poem, would fully clear it, I am persuaded, of all such 
exceptionable passages. 

With Boileau, Dacier, and the other French critics of the 
last age, the humour prevailed of decrying Tasso ; and passed 
from them to some of the English writers. But one would be 
apt to imagine, they were not much acquainted with Tasso ; or . 
at least they must have read him under the influence of strong 
prejudices. For to me it appears clear, that the Jerusalem is, 



006 LECTURE XLIV. 

in rank and dignity, the third regular epic poem in the world ; 
and comes next to the Iliad and iEneid. Tasso may be justly 
held inferior to Homer, in simplicity and in fire ; to Virgil in 
tenderness ; to Milton, in daring sublimity of genius ; but to no 
other he yields in any poetical talents ; and for fertility of inven- 
tion, variety of incidents, expression of characters, richness of 
description, and beauty of style, I know no poet, except the 
three just named, that can be compared to him. 

Ariosto, the great rival of Tasso in Italian poetry, cannot, 
with any propriety, be classed among the epic writers. The 
fundamental rule of epic composition is, to recount an heroic 
enterprise, and to form it into a regular story. Though there is 
a sort of unity and connexion in the plan of Orlando Furioso, 
yet, instead of rendering this apparent to the reader, it seems to 
have been the author's intention to keep it out of view by the 
desultory manner in which the poem is carried on, and the per- 
petual interruptions of the several stories before they are finished. 
Ariosto appears to have despised all regularity of plan, and to 
have chosen to give loose reins to a copious and rich, but ex- 
travagant fancy. At the same time, there is so much epic 
matter in the Orlando Furioso, that it would be improper to 
pass it by without some notice. It unites indeed all sorts of 
poetry j sometimes comic and satiric ; sometimes light and licen- 
tious ; at other times, highly heroic, descriptive, and tender 
Whatever strain the poet assumes, he excels in it. He is always 
master of his subject ; seems to play himself with it ; and leaves 
us sometimes at a loss to know whether he be serious or in jest. 
He is seldom dramatic ; sometimes, but not often, sentimental ; 
but in narration and description, perhaps no poet ever went 
beyond him. He makes every scene which he describes, and 
every event which he relates, pass before our eyes ; and in his 
selection of circumstances, is eminently picturesque. His style 
is much varied, always suited to the subject, and adorned with 
a remarkably smooth and melodious versification. 

As the Italians make their boast of Tasso, so do the Portu- 
guese of Camoens ; who was nearly contemporary with Tasso, 
but whose poem was published before the Jerusalem. The sub- 
ject of it is the first discovery of the East Indies by Vasco de 
Gama ; an enterprise splendid in its nature, and extremely in- 
teresting to the countrymen of Camoens, as it laid the founda- 
tion of their future wealth and consideration in Europe. The 
poem opens with Vasco and his fleet appearing on the ocean, 
between the island of Madagascar, and the coast of ^Ethiopia. 



THE LUSIAD OF CAMOENS. 007 

After various attempts to land on that coast, they are at last 
hospitably received in the kingdom of Melinda. Vasco, at the 
desire of the king, gives him an account of Europe, recites a 
poetical history of Portugal, and relates all the adventures of 
the voyage, which had preceded the opening of the poem. This 
recital takes up three cantos, or books. It is well imagined ; 
contains a great many poetical beauties ; and has no defect, 
except that Vasco makes an unseasonable display of learning 
to the African prince, in frequent allusions to the Greek and 
Roman histories. Vasco and his countrymen afterwards set 
forth to pursue their voyage. The storms and distresses which 
they encounter ; their arrival at Calecut on the Malabar coast ; 
their reception and adventures in that country, and at last 
their return homewards, fill up the rest of the poem. 

The whole work is conducted according to the epic plan. 
Both the subject and the incidents are magnificent ; and joined 
with some wildness and irregularity, there appear in the execu- 
tion, much poetic spirit, strong fancy, and bold description ; as 
far as I can judge from translations, without any knowledge of 
the original. There is no attempt towards painting characters 
in the poem ; Vasco is the hero, and the only personage indeed 
that makes any figure. 

The machinery of the Lusiad is perfectly extravagant ; not 
only is it formed of a singular mixture of Christian ideas and 
Pagan mythology ; but it is so conducted that the Pagan gods ap- 
pear to be the true deities, and Christ and the Blessed Virgin to 
be subordinate agents. One great scope of the Portuguese ex- 
pedition, our author informs us, is to propagate the Christian 
faith, and 10 extirpate Mahometanism. In this religious under- 
taking, the great protector of the Portuguese is Venus, and their 
great adversary is Bacchus, whose displeasure is excited, by 
Vasco's attempting to rival his fame in the Indies. Councils of 
the gods are held, in which Jupiter is introduced, as foretelling 
the downfall of Mahometanism, and the propagation of the 
Gospel. Vasco, in great distress from a storm, prays most 
seriously to God ; implores the aid of Christ and the Virgin, and 
begs for such assistance as was given to the Israelites, when 
they were passing through the Red Sea, and to the apostle 
Paul, when he was in hazard of shipwreck. In return to this 
prayer, Venus appears, who, discerning the storm to be the 
work of Bacchus, complains to Jupiter, and procures the winds 
<o be calmed. Such strange and preposterous machinery, 
shows how much authors have been misled by the absurd opinion. 



608 LECTURE XLIV. 

that there could be no epic poetry without the gods of Homer 
Towards the end of the work, indeed, the author gives us an 
awkward salvo for his whole mythology ; making the goddess 
Thetis inform Vasco, that she, and the rest of the heathen dei- 
ties, are no more than names to describe the operations of Pro- 
vidence. 

There is, however, some fine machinery, of a different kind, 
in the Lusiacl. The genius of the river Ganges, appearing to 
Emanuel king of Portugal, in a dream, inviting that prince to 
discover his secret springs, and acquainting him that he was the 
destined monarch for whom the treasures of the East were re- 
served, is a happy idea. But the noblest conception of this sort 
is in the fifth canto, where Vasco is recounting to the king of 
Melinda all the wonders which he met with in his navigation. 
He tells him, that when the fleet arrived at the Cape of Good 
Hope, which never before' had been doubled by any navigator, 
there appeared to them, on a sudden, a huge and monstrous 
phantom rising out of the sea, in the midst of tempests and 
thunders, with a head that readied the clouds, and a countenance 
that filled them with terror. This was the genius, or guardian, 
of that hitherto unknown ocean. It spoke to them with a voice 
like thunder ; menacing them, for invading those seas which he 
had so long possessed undisturbed ; and for daring to explore 
those secrets of the deep, which never had been revealed to the 
eye of mortals ; required them to proceed no farther ; if they 
should proceed, foretold all the successive calamities that were 
to befal them ; and then, with a mighty noise, disappeared. 
This is one of the most solemn and striking pieces of machinery 
that ever was employed; and is sufficient to show that Camoens 
is a poet, though of an irregular, yet of a bold and a lofty ima- 
gination.* 

In reviewing the epic poets, it were unjust to make no men- 
tion of the amiable author of the Adventures of Telemachus. 
His work, though not composed in verse, is justly entitled to be 
held a poem. The measured poetical prose, in which it is 
written, is remarkably harmonious ; and gives the style nearly 
as much elevation as the French language is capable of sup- 
porting, even in regular verse. 

The plan of the work is, in general, well contrived ; and is 

* I have made no mention of the Araucana, an epic poem, in Spanish, com- 
posed by Alonzo d'Ercilla, because I am unacquainted with the original language, 
and have not seen any translation of it. A full account of it is given by Mr. 
Hayley, in the notes upon his Essay on Epic Poetry. 



THE TELEMACHUS OF EENELON COH 

deficient neither in epic grandeur, nor unity of c bject. The 
author has entered with much felicity into the spirit and ideas 
of the ancient poets, particularly into the ancient mythology, 
which retains more dignity, and makes a better figure in his 
hands, tlian in those of any other modern poet. His descrip- 
tions are rich and beautiful ; especially of the softer and calmer 
scenes, for which the genius of Fenelon was best s.uited ; such 
as the incidents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue or a 
country flourishing in peace. There is an inimitable sweetness 
and tenderness in several of Hie pictures of this kind, which he 
has given. 

The best executed part of the work is the first six books, in 
which Teleinachus recounts his adventures to Calypso. The 
narration, throughout them, is lively and interesting. After- 
wards, especially in the last twelve books, it becomes more 
tedious and languid; and in the warlike adventures which are 
attempted, there is a great defect of vigour. The chief objec- 
tion against this work being classed with epic poems, arises from 
the minute details of virtuous policy, into which the author in 
some places enters ; and from the discourses and instructions of 
Mentor, which recur upon us too often ; and too much in the 
strain of common-place morality. Though these were well 
suited to the main design of the author, which was to form the 
mind of a young prince, yet they seem not congruous to the 
nature of epic poetry ; the object of which is to improve us by 
means of actions, characters, and sentiments, rather than by de- 
livering professed and formal instruction. 

Several of the epic poets have described a descent into hell ; 
and in the prospects they have given us of the invisible world, 
we may observe the gradual refinement of men's notions con- 
cerning a state of future rewards and punishments. The 
descent of Ulysses into licii, in Homer's Odyssey, presents 
to us a very indistinct and dreary sort of object. The scene 
is laid in the country of the Cimmerians, which is always 
covered with clouds and darkness, at the extremity of the ocean. 
When the spirits of the dead begin to appear, we scarcely know 
whether Ulysses is above ground or below it. None of the 
ghosts, even of the heroes, appear satisfied with their condition 
in the other world ; and when Ulysses endeavours to comfort 
Achilles, by reminding him of the illustrious figure which he 
must make in those regions, Achilles roundly tells him, that all 
such speeches are idle ; for he would rather be a day-labourer on 
earth, than have the command of all the dead- 

2 R 



(310 LECTURE XLIV. 

In the sixth book of the iEneid, we discern a much greater 
refinement of ideas, corresponding to the progress which the 
world had then made in philosophy. The objects there delinea- 
ted, are both more clear and distinct, and more grand and awful. 
The separate mansions of good and of bad spirits, with the 
punishments of the one, and the employments and happiness of 
the other, are finely described ; and in consistency with the most 
pure morality. But the visit which Fenelon makes Telemachus 
pay to the shades, is much more philosophical still than Virgil's. 
He employs the same fables and the same mythology ; but we find 
the ancient mythology refined by the knowledge of the true reli- 
gion, and adorned with that beautiful enthusiasm, for which Fene- 
lon was so distinguished. His account of the happiness of the 
just is an excellent description in the mystic strain ; and very ex- 
pressive of the genius and spirit of the author. 

Voltaire has given us, in his Henriade, a regular epic poem, 
in French verse. In every performance of that celebrated writer, 
we may expect to find marks of genius ; and, accordingly, that 
work discovers, in several places, that boldness in the concep- 
tions, and that liveliness and felicity in the expression, for which 
the author is so remarkably distinguished. Several of the com- 
parisons, in particular, which occur in it, are both new and happy. 
But, considered upon the whole, I cannot esteem it one of his 
chief productions ; and am of opinion, that he has succeeded 
infinitely better in tragic than in epic composition. French ver- 
sification seems ill adapted to epic poetry. Besides its being 
always fettered by rhyme, the language never assumes a sufficient 
degree of elevation or majesty; and appears to be more capable 
of expressing the tender in tragedy, than of supporting the sub- 
lime in epic. Hence a feebleness, and sometimes a prosaic flat- 
ness, in the style of the Henriade ; and whether from this, or 
from some other cause, the poem often languishes. It does not 
seize the imagination, nor interest and carry the reader along, 
with that ardour which ought to be inspired by a sublime and 
spirited epic poem. 

The subject of the Henriade is the triumph of Henry the 
Fourth over the arms of the League. The action of the poem 
properly includes only the siege of Paris. It is an action per- 
fectly epic in its nature ; great, interesting, and conducted with 
a sufficient regard to unity, and all the other critical rules. But 
it is liable to both the defects which I before remarked in Lucan's 
Pharsalia It is founded wholly on civil wars ; and presents to 
us those odious and detestable objects of massacres and assas- 



THE HENRI AD E OF VOLTAIRE. <m 

sinations, which throw a gloom over the poem. It is also, like 
Lucan's, of too recent a date, and conies too much within the 
bounds of well-known history. To remedy this last defect, and 
to remove the appearance of being a mere historian, Voltaire 
has chosen to mix fiction with truth. The poem, for instance, 
opens with a voyage of Henry's to England, and an interview 
between him and Queen Elizabeth ; though every one, knows that 
Henry never was in England, and that these two illustrious per- 
sonages never met. In facts of such public notoriety, a fiction 
like this shocks the reader, and forms an unnatural and ill-sorted 
mixture with historical truth. The episode was contrived, in 
order to give Henry an opportunity of recounting the former 
transactions of the civil wars, in imitation of the recital which 
yEneas makes to Dido in the iEneid. But the imitation was in- 
judicious. iEneas might, with propriety, relate to Dido, trans- 
actions of which she was either entirely ignorant, or had acquired 
only an imperfect knowledge by flying reports. But Queen 
Elizabeth could not but be supposed to be perfectly apprized of 
all the facts, which the poet makes Henry recite to her. 

In order to embellish his subject, Voltaire has chosen to 
employ a great deal of machinery. But here, also, I am obliged 
to censure his conduct ; for the machinery, which he chiefly 
employs, is of the worst kind, and the least suited to an epic 
poem, — that of allegorical beings. Discord, Cunning, and Love, 
appear as personages, mix with the human actors, and make a 
considerable figure in the intrigue of the poem. This is contrary 
to every rule of rational criticism. Ghosts, angels, and devils, 
have popular belief on their side, and may be conceived as ex- 
isting. But every one knows, that allegorical beings are no more 
than representatives of human dispositions and passions. They 
may be employed like other personifications and figures of 
speech ; or in a poem, that is wholly allegorical, th>;y may occu- 
py the chief place. They are there in their nati\e and proper 
region ; but in a poem which relates to human transactions, as I 
had occasion before to remark, when such beings are described 
as acting along with men, the imagination is confounded ; it is 
divided between phantasms and realities, and knows not on what 
to rest. 

In justice, however, to our author, I must observe, that the 
machinery of St. Louis, which he also employs, is of a better 
kind, and possesses real dign'.ty. The finest passage in the 
Henriade, indeed one of the fines* that occurs in any poem, is 

2 R 2 



C12 LECTURE XLIV. 

the prospect of the invisible world, which St. Louis gives to 
Henry in a dream, in the seventh canto. Death bringing the 
souls of the departed in succession before God; their astonish- 
ment when, arriving from all different countries and reli- 
gious sects, they are brought into the divine presence ; when 
they find their superstitions to be false, and have the truth 
unveiled to ^hem ; the palace of the Destinies opened to Henry, 
and the prospect of his successors which is there given him ; are 
striking and magnificent objects, and do honour to the genius of 
Voltaire. 

Though some of the episodes in this poem are properly ex- 
tended, yet the narration is, on the whole, too general ; the 
events are too much crowded, and superficially related ; which 
is, doubtless, one cause of the poem making a faint impres- 
sion. The strain of sentiment which runs through it is high 
and noble. Religion appears, on every occasion, with great 
and proper lustre ; and the author breathes that spirit of 
humanity and toleration, which is conspicuous in all his 
works. 

Milton, of whom it remains now to speak, has chalked out 
for himself a new, and very extraordinary road, in poetry. As 
soon as we open his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves introduced 
all at once into an invisible world, and surrounded with celestial 
and infernal beings. Angels and devils are not the machinery, 
but principal actors, in the poem ; and, what in any other com- 
position, would be the marvellous, is here only the natural 
course of events. A subject so remote from the affairs of this 
world, may furnish ground to those who think such discussions 
material, to bring it into doubt, whether Paradise Lost can 
properly be classed among epic poems. Ry whatever name it 
is to be called, it is, undoubtedly, one of the highest efforts of 
poetical genius ; and in one great characteristic of the epic poem, 
majesty and sublimity, it is fully equal to any that bear that 
name. 

How far the author was altogether happy in the choice of 
his subject, may be questioned. It has led him into very difficult 
ground. Had he taken a subject that was more human, and 
less theological ; that was more connected with the occurrences 
of life, and afforded a greater display of the characters and 
passions of men, his poem would, perhaps, have, to the bulk of 
readers, been more pleasing and attractive. Rut the subject 
which he has chosen suited the daring sublimity of his 



MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. 613 

genius ft is a subject for which Milton alone was fitted ; and 
in the conduct of it, he has shown a stretch, both of imagination 
and invention, Avhich is perfectly wonderful. It is astonishing 
how, from the few hints given us in the sacred Scriptures, he 
was able to raise so complete and regular a structure, and to 
fill his poem with such a variety of incidents. Dry and harsh 
passages sometimes occur. The author appears, upon some oc- 
casions, a metaphysician and a divine, rather than a poet. But 
the general tenor of his work is interesting ; he seizes and fixes 
the imagination ; engages, elevates, and affects us as we proceed ; 
which is always a sure test of merit in an epic composition. The 
artful change of his objects ; the scene laid now in earth, now in 
hell, and now in heaven, affords a sufficient diversity ; while unity 
of plan is, at the same time, perfectly supported. We have still 
life, and calm scenes, in the employments of Adam and Eve in 
Paradise ; and we have busy scenes, and great actions, in the 
enterprise of Satan, and the wars of the angels. The innocence, 
purity, and amiableness of our first parents, opposed to the pride 
and ambition of Satan, furnishes a happy contrast, that reigns 
throughout the whole poem ; only the conclusion, as I before ob- 
served, is too tragic for epic poetry. 

The nature of the subject did not admit any great display of 
characters ; but such as could be introduced, are supported with 
much propriety. Satan, in particular, makes a striking figure, 
and is, indeed, the best drawn character in the poem. Milton 
has not described him such as we suppose an infernal spirit to 
be. He has, more suitably to his own purpose, given him a 
human, that is, a mixed character, not altogether void of some 
good qualities. He is brave and faithful to his troops. In the 
midst of his impiety, he is not without remorse. He is even 
touched with pity for our first parents ; and justifies himself in 
his design against them, from the necessity of his situation. He 
is actuated by ambition and resentment, rather than by pure 
malice. In short, Milton's Satan is no worse than many a con- 
spirator or factious chief, thafmakes a figure in history. The 
different characters of Beelzebub, Moloch, Belial, are exceedingly 
well painted, in those eloquent speeches which they make in the 

* " He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know 
what it was that nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon 
others: the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing 
the awful, darkening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful. He therefore 
chose a subject, on which too much could not be said ; on which he might tira 
his fancy, without the censure, of extravagance-" — Dr. Johnson's Life oi 
Milton. 



G14 LECTURE XLTV. 

second book. The good angels, thougli always described wilh 
dignity and propriety, have more uniformity than the infernal 
spirits in their appearance ; though among them, too, the dignity 
of Michael, the mild condescension of Raphael, and the tried 
fidelity of Abdiel, form proper characteristical distinctions. The 
attempt to describe God Almighty himself, and to recount dia- 
logues between the Father and the Son, was too bold and 
arduous, and is that wherein our poet, as was to have been ex- 
pected, has been most unsuccessful. With regard to his human 
characters ; the innocence of our first parents, and their love, are 
finely and delicately painted. In some of his speeches to Raphael 
and to Eve, Adam is, perhaps, too knowing and refined for his 
situation. Eve is more distinctly characterised. Her gentle- 
ness, modesty, and frailty, mark very expressively a female 
character. 

Milton's great and distinguishing excellence is, his sublimity 
In this, perhaps, he excels Homer ; as there is no doubt of his 
leaving Virgil, and every other poet, far behind him. Almost 
the whole of the first and second books of Paradise Lost are 
continued instances of the sublime. The prospect of hell and 
of the fallen host, the appearance and behaviour of Satan, the 
consultation of the infernal chiefs, and Satan's flight through 
chaos to the borders of this world, discover the most lofty ideas 
that ever entered into the conception of any poet. In the sixth 
book, also, there is much grandeur, particularly in the appear- 
ance of the Messiah ; though some parts of that book are cen- 
surable ; and the witticisms of the devils upon the effect of their 
artillery, form an intolerable blemish. Milton's sublimity is of a 
. different kind from that of Homer. Homer's is generally ac- / 
companied with fire and impetuosity ; Milton's possesses more I 
of a calm and amazing grandeur. Homer warms and hurries us 
along ; Milton fixes us in a state of astonishment and elevation. 
Homer's sublimity appears most in the description of actions; 
Milton's, in that of wonderful and stupendous objects. 

But though Milton is most distinguished for his sublimity, 
yet there is also much of the beautiful, the tender, and the 
pleasing, in many parts of his work. When the scene is laid in 
Paradise, the imagery is always of the most gay and smiling 
kind. His descriptions show an uncommonly fertile imagina- 
tion ; and in his similes, he is, for the most part, remarkably 
happy. They are seldom improperly introduced; seldom either 
low or trite. They generally present to us images taken froic 
the sublime or the beautiful class of objects; if they have auy 



MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. 615 

faults, it is their alluding too frequently to matters of learning, 
and to fables of antiquity. In the latter part of Paradise Lost, 
there must be confessed to be a falling off. With the fall of our 
first parents, Milton's genius seems to decline. Beauties, how- 
ever, there are, in the concluding books, of the tragic kind. 
The remorse and contrition of the guilty pair, and their lamenta- 
tions over Paradise, when they are obliged to leave it, are very 
moving. The last episode, of the angel's showing Adam the 
fate of his posterity, is happily imagined ; but, in many places, 
the execution is languid. 

Milton's language and versification have high merit. His 
style is full of majesty, and wonderfully adapted to his subject. 
His blank verse is harmonious and diversified, and affords the 
most complete example of the elevation which our language is 
capable of attaining by the force of numbers. It does not flow, 
like the French verse, in tame, regular, uniform melody, which 
soon tires the ear ; but is sometimes smooth and flowing, some- 
times rough ; varied in its cadence, and intermixed with discords, 
so as to suit the strength and freedom of epic composition. 
Neglected and prosaic lines, indeed, we sometimes meet with ; 
but, in a work so long, and in the main so harmonious, these 
may be forgiven 

On the whole, Paradise Lost is a poem that abounds with 
beauties of every kind, and that justly entitles its author to a 
degree of fame not inferior to any poet ; though it must be 
also admitted to have many inequalities. It is the lot of almost 
every high and daring genius, not to be uniform and correct. 
Milton is too frequently theological and metaphysical; some- 
times harsh in his language ; often too technical in his words, 
and affectedly ostentatious of his learning. Many of his faults 
must be attributed to the pedantry of the age in which he lived. 
He discovers a vigour, a grasp of genius equal to every thing 
that is great ; if at some times he falls much below himself, at 
other times he rises above every poet, of the ancient or modern 
Avorld. 



LECTURE XLV. 

DRAMATIC POETRY— TRAGEDY. 



DRAMATIC Poetry has, among all civilized nations, been 
considered as a rational and useful entertainment, and judged 



616 LECTURE XLV. 

worthy of careful and serious discussion. According as it is 
employed upon the light and the gay, or upon the grave and af- 
fecting incidents of human life, it divides itself into the two forms, 
of Comedy or Tragedy. But as great and serious objects com- 
mand more attention than little and ludicrous ones ; as the fall 
of a hero interests the public more than the marriage of a private 
person; tragedy has always been held a more dignified enter- 
tainment than comedy. The one rests upon the high passions, 
the virtues, crimes, and sufferings of mankind ; the other on 
their humours, follies, and pleasures. Terror and pity are the 
great instruments of the former ; ridicule is the sole instrument 
of the latter. Tragedy shall therefore f be the object of our 
fullest discussion. This and the following lecture shall be em- 
ployed on it ; after which I shall treat of what is peculiar to 
comedy. 

Tragedy, considered as an exhibition of the characters and 
behaviour of men in some of the most trying and critical situa- 
tions of life, is a noble idea of poetry. It is a direct imitation of 
human manners and actions. For it does not, like the epic 
poem, exhibit characters by the narration and description of the 
poet; but the poet disappears; and the personages themselves 
are set before us, acting and speaking what is suitable to their 
characters. Hence, no kind of writing is so great a trial of the 
author's profound knowledge of the human heart. No kind of 
writing has so much power, when happily executed, to raise the 
strongest emotions. It is, or ought to be, a mirror in which we 
behold ourselves, and the evils to which we are exposed ; a faith- 
ful copy of the human passions, with all their direful effects, 
when they are suffered to become extravagant. 

As tragedy is a high and distinguished species of composi- 
tion, so also, in its general strain and spirit, it is favourable to 
virtue. Such power hath virtue happily over the human mind, 
by the wise and gracious constitution.of our nature, that as admi- 
ration cannot be raised in epic poetry, so neither in tragic po- 
etry can our passions be strongly moved, unless virtuous 
emotions be awakened within us. Every poet finds, that it is 
impossible to interest us in any character, without representing 
that character as worthy and honourable, though it may not be 
perfect; and that the great secret for raising indignation, is to 
paint the person who is to be the object of it, in the colours of 
vice and depravity. He may, indeed, nay, he must, represent 
the virtuous as sometimes unfortunate, because this is often the 
case in real life ; but he will always study to engage our hearts in 



TRAGEDY. 017 

their behalf; and though they may be described as unprosperoas, 
yet there is no instance of a tragic poet representing vice as 
fully trumphant, and happy, in the catastrophe of the piece. 
Even when bad men succeed in their designs, punishment is 
made always to attend them ; and misery of one kind or other 
is shown to be unavoidably connected with guilt. Love and 
admiration of virtuous characters, compassion for the injured 
and the distressed, and indignation against the authors of their 
sufferings, are the sentiments most generally excited by tragedy. 
And therefore, though dramatic writers may sometimes, like 
other writers be guilty of improprieties, though they may 
fail of placing virtue precisely in the due point of light, yet 
no reasonable person can deny tragedy to be a moral species 
of composition. Taking tragedies complexly, I am fully per- 
suaded, that the impressions left by them upon the mind are, 
on the whole, favourable to virtue and good dispositions. 
And, therefore, the zeal which some pious men have shown 
against the entertainments of the theatre, must rest only 
upon the abuse of comedy ; which, indeed, has frequently been 
so great as to justify very severe censures against it. 

The account which Aristotle gives of the design of tragedy 
is, that it is intended to purge our passions by means of pity 
and terror. This is somewhat obscure. Various senses have 
been put upon his words, and much altercation has followed 
among his commentators. Without entering into any contro- 
versy upon this head, the intention of tragedy may, I think, be 
more shortly and clearly defined, to improve our virtuous 
sensibility. If an author interests us in behalf of virtue, 
forms us to compassion for the distressed, inspires us with 
proper sentiments, on beholding the vicissitudes of life, and, 
by means of the concern which he raises for the misfor- 
tunes of others, leads us to guard against errors in our 
own conduct, he accomplishes all the moral purposes of 
tragedy. 

In order to this end, the first requisite is, that he choose 
some moving and interesting story, and that he conduct it in 
a natural and probable manner. For we must observe, that the 
natural and the probable must always be the basis of tragedy ; 
and are infinitely more important there, than in epic poetry. 
The object of the epic poet is to excite our admiration by the 
recital of heroic adventures ; and a much slighter degree of 
probability is required when admiration is concerned, than when 
the tender passions are intended to be moved. The imagination, 



618 LECTURE XLV. 

in the former case, is exalted, accommodates itself to the poet's 
idea, and can admit the marvellous without being shocked. But 
tragedy demands a stricter imitation of the life and actions of 
men. For the end which it pursues is not so much to elevate 
the imagination as to affect the heart ; and the heart always 
judges more nicely than the imagination, of what is probable. 
Passion can be raised, only by making the impressions of nature 
and of truth upon the mind. By introducing, therefore, any 
wild or romantic circumstances into his story, the poet never 
fails to check passion in its growth, and, of course, disappoints 
the main effect of tragedy. 

This principle, which is founded on the clearest reason, ex- 
cludes from tragedy all machinery, or fabulous intervention of 
the gods. Ghosts have, indeed, maintained their place ; as being 
strongly founded on popular belief, and peculiarly suited to 
heighten the terror of tragic scenes. But all unravellings of the 
plot, which turn upon the interposition of deities, such as Euri- 
pides employs in several of his plays, are much to be condemned; 
both as clumsy and inartificial, and as destroying the probability 
of the story. This mixt;;rrf of machinery with the tragic action, 
is, undoubtedly, a bleislah in the ancient theatre. 

In order to promote that impression of probability which is 
so necessary to the success of trage jy, some critics have re- 
quired, that the subject should never be a pure fiction invented 
by the poet, but built on real history, or known facts. Such, 
indeed, were generally, if not always, the subjects of the Greek 
tragedians. But I cannot hold this to be a matter of any great 
consequence. It is proved by experience, that a fictitious tale, 
if properly conducted, will melt the heart as much as any real 
history. In order to our being moved, it is not necessary, that 
the events related did actually happen, provided they be such as 
might easily have happened in the ordinary course of nature. 
Even when tragedy borrows its materials from history, it mixes 
many a fictitious circumstance. The greatest part of readers 
neither know -}or inquire, what is fabulous, or what is historical, 
in the subject. They attend only to what is probable, and are 
touched by events which resemble nature. Accordingly, some 
of the most pathetic tragedies are entirely fictitious in the sub- 
ject ; such as Voltaire's Zaire and Alzire, the Orphan, Douglas, 
the Fair Penitent, and several others. 

Whether the subject be of the real or feigned kind, that on 
which most depends for rendering the incidents in a tragedy 
probable, and by means of their probability affecting, is the 



TRAGEDY. C1& 

conduct or management of the story, and the connexion of 
its several parts. To regulate this conduct, critics have laid 
down the famous rule of the three Unities ; the importance of 
which it will be necessary to discuss. But, in order to do this 
with more advantage, it will be necessary, that we first look 
backwards, and trace the rise and origin of tragedy, which will 
give light to several things relating to the subject. 

Tragedy, like other arts, was, in its beginning, rude and 
imperfect. Among the Greeks, from whom our dramatic en- 
tertainments are derived, the origin of tragedy was no other 
than the song which was wont to be sung at the festival of 
Bacchus. A goat was the sacrifice offered to that god ; after 
the sacrifice, the priests, with the company that joined them, 
sung hymns in honour of Bacchus ; and from the name of the 
victim, rpayog, a goat, joined with wS»j, a song, undoubtedly 
arose the word tragedy. 

These hymns, or lyric poems,, were sung sometimes by the 
whole company, sometimes by separate bands, answering alter- 
nately to each other ; making what we call a chorus, with its 
strophes and antistrophes. In order to throw some variety into 
this entertainment, and to relieve the singers, it was thought 
proper to introduce a person who, between the songs, should 
make a recitation in verse. Thespis, who lived about 536 years 
before the Christian sera, made this innovation ; and, as it was 
relished, iEschylus, who came 50 years after him, and who is 
properly the father of tragedy, went a step farther, introduced 
a dialogue between two persons, or actors, in which he contrived 
to interweave some interesting story, and brought his actors on 
a stage, adorned with proper scenery and decorations. All that 
these actors recited, was called episode, or additional song ; and 
the songs of the chorus were made to relate no longer to Bac- 
chus, their original subject, but to the story in which the actors 
were concerned. This began to give the drama a regular form 
which was soon after brought to perfection by Sophocles and 
Euripides. It is remarkable, in how short a space of time 
tragedy grew up among the Greeks, from the rudest beginnings 
to its most perfect state. For Sophocles, the greatest and most 
correct of all the tragic poets, flourished only 22 years after 
iEschylus, and was little more than 70 years posterior to 
Thespis. 

From the account which I have now given, it appears, that 
the chorus was the basis or foundation of the ancient tragedy. 
It was not an ornament added to it, or a contrivance designed 



620 LECTURE XLV. 

to render it more perfect ; but, in truth, the dramatic dialogue 
was an addition to the chorus, which was the original entertain- 
ment. In process of time, the chorus, from being the principal, 
became only the accessory in tragedy; till at last, in modern 
tragedy, it has disappeared altogether ; which forms the chief 
distinction between the ancient and the modern stage. 

This has given rise to a question, much agitated between the 
partisans of the ancients and the moderns, whether the drama 
has gained or suffered, by the abolition of the chorus. It must 
be admitted, that the chorus tended to render tragedy both 
more magnificent and more instructive and moral. It was 
always the most sublime and poetical part of the work ; and 
being carried on by singing, and accompanied with music, it 
must, no doubt, have diversified the entertainment greatly, and 
added to its splendour. The chorus, at the same time, conveyed 
constant lessons of virtue. It was composed of such persons as 
might most naturally be supposed present on the occasion ; inhab- 
itants of the place where the scene was laid, often the compan- 
ions of some of the principal actors, and therefore, in some de- 
gree, interested in the issue of the action. This company, which, 
in the days of Sophocles, was restricted to the number of fifteen 
persons, was constantly on the stage, during the whole perform- 
ance, mingled in discourse with the actors, entered into their 
concerns, suggested counsel and advice to them, moralized on 
all the incidents that were going on, and, during the intervals 
of the action, sung their odes, or songs, in which they addressed 
the gods, prayed for success to the virtuous, lamented their 
misfortunes, and delivered many religious and moral senti- 
ments.* 

• The office of the chorus is thus described by Horace: 

Actoris partes chorus, officiumque virile 

Defendat; neu quid medios intercinat actus, 

Quod non proposito conducat, et haereat ap;e. 

Hie bonis faveatque et concilietur amice, 

Et regat iratos, et amet pacare tumentes : 

Hie dapes laudet mensae brevis ; ille salubrem 

Justitiam, legesque, et apertis otia portis : 

Ille tegat commissa ; deosque, precetur, et oret, 

Ut redeat miseris, abeat fortuna superbis. De Art Poet. 193. 

" The chorus must support an actor's part, 
Defend the virtuous, and advise with art; 
Govern the choleric, and the proud appease. 
And the short feasts of frugal tables praise ; 
Applaud the justice of well- govern 'd states, 
And peace triumphant with her open gates. 



TRAGEDY. G21 

But, notwithstanding the advantages which were obtained 
by means of the chorus, the inconveniences on the other side 
are so great, as to render the modern practice of excluding the 
chorus, far more eligible upon the whole. For if a natural and 
probable imitation of human actions be the chief end of the 
drama, no other persons ought to be brought on the stage, than 
those who are necessary to the dramatic action. The introduc- 
tion of an adventitious company of persons, who have but a 
slight concern in the business of the play, is unnatural in itself, 
embarrassing to the poet, and, though it may render the spectacle 
splendid, tends, undoubtedly, to render it more cold and unin- 
teresting, because more unlike a real transaction. The mixture 
of music, or song, on the part of the chorus, with the dialogue 
carried on by the actors, is another unnatural circumstance, re- 
moving the representation still farther from the resemblance of 
life. The poet, besides, is subjected to innumerable difficulties 
in so contriving his plan, that the presence of the chorus, during 
all the incidents of the play, shall consist with any probability. 
The scene must be constantly, and often absurdly, laid in some 
public place, that the chorus may be supposed to have free ac- 
cess to it. To many things that ought to be transacted in private, 
the chorus must ever be witnesses ; they must be the confederates 
of both parties, who come successively upon the stage, and who 
are, perhaps, conspiring against each other. In short, the. man- 
agement of a chorus is an unnatural confinement to a poet; it 
requires too great a sacrifice of probability in the conduct of the 
action ; it has too much the air of a theatrical decoration, to be 
consistent with that appearance of reality, which a poet must 
ever preserve in order to move our passions. The origin of tra- 
gedy, among the Greeks, we have seen, was a choral song, or 
hymn, to the gods. There is no wonder therefore, that on the 
Greek stage it so long maintained possession. But it may con- 
fidently, I think, be asserted, that if, instead of the dramatic 
dialogue having been superadded to the chorus, the dialogue 
itself had been the first invention, the chorus would, in that case, 
never have been thought of. 

One use, I am of opinion, might still be made of the ancien. 
chorus, and would be a considerable improvement of the modem 

Intrusted secrets let them ne'er betray, 

But to the righteous gods with ardour pray, 

That fortune, with returning smiles, may bless 

Afflicted worth, and impious pride depress ; 

Yet let their songs with apt coherence join, 

Promote the plot, and aid the just design."— -Francis. 



«22 LECTURE XLV. 

theatre; if, instead of that unmeaning, and often improperly 
chosen music, with which the audience is entertained in the in- 
tervals between the acts, a chorus were then to be introduced, 
whose music and songs, though forming no part of the play, 
should have a relation to the incidents of the preceding act, 
and to the dispositions which those incidents are presumed to 
have awakened in the spectators. By this means, the tone of 
passion would be kept up without interruption; and all the 
good effects of the ancient chorus might be preserved, for in- 
spiring proper sentiments, and for increasing the morality of 
the performance, without those inconveniences which arose from 
the chorus forming a constituent part of the play, and mingling 
unseasonably, and unnaturally, with the personages of the 
drama. 

After the view which we have taken of the rise of tragedy, 
and of the nature of the ancient chorus, with the advantages 
and inconveniences attending it, our way is cleared for examin- 
ing, with more advantage, the three unities of action, place, and 
time, which have generally been considered as essential to the 
proper conduct of the dramatic fable. 

Of these three, the first, unity of act'on, is, beyond doubt, 
far the most important. In treating of epic poetry, I have 
already explained the nature of it ; as consisting in a relation 
which all the incidents introduced bear to some design or effect, 
so as to combine naturally into one whole. This unity of subject 
is still more essential to tragedy, than it is to epic poetry. For 
a multiplicity of plots, or actions, crowded into so short a space 
as tragedy allows, must of necessity, distract the attention, and 
prevent passion from rising to any hight. Nothing, therefore, is 
worse conduct in a tragic poet, than to carry on two independent 
actions in the same play ; the effect of which is, that the mind } 
being suspended and divided between them, cannot give itself up 
entirely either to the one or the other. There may, indeed, be 
underplots ; that is, the persons introduced may have different 
pursuits and designs ; but the poet's art must be shown in ma- 
naging these, so as to render them subservient to the main action. 
They ought to be connected with the catastrophe of the play, 
and to conspire in bringing it forward. If there be any intrigue 
which stands separate and independent, and which may be left 
out without affecting the unravelling of the plot, we may always 
conclude this to be a faulty violation of unity. Such episodes 
are not permitted here, as in epic poetry. 

We have a clear example of this defect in Mr. Addison's 



TRAGEDY. ttt3 

Cato. The subject of this tragedy is, the death of Cato ; and a 
very noble personage Cato is, and supported by the author with 
much dignity. But all the love scenes in the play, the passion of 
Cato's two sons for Lucia, and that of Juba for Cato's daughter, 
are mere episodes ; have no connection with the principal action, 
and no effect upon it. The author thought his subject too bar- 
ren in incidents, and in order to diversify it, he has given us, as 
it were, by the by, a history of the amours that were going on 
in Cato's family ; by which he hath both broken the unity of his 
subject, and formed a very unseasonable junction of gallantry, 
with the high sentiments, and public-spirited passions which pre- 
dominate in other parts, and which the play was chieflv designed 
to display. 

We must take care not to confound the unity of the action 
with the simplicity of the plot. Unity, and simplicity, import 
different things in dramatic composition. The plot is said to be 
simple, when a small number of incidents are introduced into it. 
But it may be implex, as the critics term it, that is, it may include 
a considerable number of persons and events, and yet not be de- 
ficient in unity ; provided all the incidents be made to tend to- 
wards the principal object of the play, and be properly connect- 
ed with it. All the Greek tragedies not only maintain unity in 
the action, but are remarkably simple in the plot ; to such a de- 
gree, indeed, as sometimes to appear to us too naked, and des- 
titute of interesting events. In the (Edipus Coloneus, for 
instance, of Sophocles, the whole subject is no more than this : 
(Edipus, blind and miserable, wanders to Athens, and wishes to 
die there ; Creon, and his son Polynices, arrive at the same time, 
and endeavour, separately, to persuade the old man to return to 
Thebes, each with a view to his own interest ; he will not go ; 
Theseus, the king of Athens, protects him ; and the play ends 
with his death. In the Philoctetes of the same author, the plot, 
or fable, is nothing more than Ulysses and the son of Achilles, 
studying to persuade the diseased Philoctetes to leave his unin- 
habited island, and go with them to Troy ; which he refuses to 
do, till Hercules, whose arrows he possessed, descends from 
heaven and commands him. Yet these simple, and seemingly 
barren subjects, are wrought up with so much art by Sophocles, 
as to become very tender and affecting. 

Among the moderns, much greater variety of events has been 
admitted into tragedy. It has become more the theatre of pas- 
sion than it was among the ancients. A greater display of 
characters is attempted ; more intrigue and action are carried 



G24 LECTURE XLV. 

on ; our curiosity is more awakened, and more interesting si- 
tuations arise. This variety is, upon the whole, an improvement 
on tragedy ; it renders the entertainment both more animated 
and more instructive ; and when kept within due bounds, may 
be perfectly consistent with unity of subject. But the poet must, 
at the same time, beware of not deviating too far from simplicity 
in the construction of his fable. For if he overcharges it with 
action and intrigue, it becomes perplexed and embarrassed ; and, 
by consequence, loses much of its effect. Cong'-eve's Mourning 
Bride, a tragedy otherwise far from being void of merit, fails in 
this respect ; and may be given as an instance, of one standing 
in perfect opposition to the simplicity of the ancient plots. The 
incidents succeed one another too rapidly. The play is too full 
of business. It is difficult for the mind to follow and com- 
prehend the whole series of events ; and, what is the great- 
est fault of all, the catastrophe, which ought always to be 
plain and simple, is brought about in a manner too artificial and 
intricate. 

Unity of action must not only be studied in the general con- 
struction of the fable, or plot, but must regulate the several acts 
and scenes into which the play is divided. 

The division of every play, into five acts, has no other 
foundation than common practice, and the authority of 
Horace : 

Neve minor, neti sit quiuto prodiictior actu 
Fabula.* De Arte Poet.— v. 189. 

It is a division purely arbitrary. There is nothing in the 
nature of the composition which fixes this number rather than 
any other ; and it had been much better if no such number had 
been ascertained, but every play had been allowed to divide itself 
into as many parts, or intervals, as the subject naturally pointed 
out. On the Greek stage, whatever may have been the case on 
the Roman, the division by acts was totally unknown. The 
word act, never once occurs in Aristotle's Poetics, in which he 
defines exactly every part of the drama, and divides it into the 
beginning, the middle, and the end ; or, in his own words, into 
the prologue, the episode, and the exode. The Greek tragedy 
was, indeed, one continued representation, from beginning to 
end. The stage was never empty, nor the curtain let fall. But 
at certain intervals, when the actors retired, the chorus conti- 

• " If you would have your play deserve success, 

Give it five acts complete, nor more, nor less." — Francis 



TRAGEDY. 6*4 

nued and sung. Neither do these songs of the cnorus divide 
the Greek tragedies into five portions, similar to our acts ; 
though some of the commentators have endeavoured to force 
them into this office. But it is plain, that the intervals at 
which the chorus sung, are extremely unequal and irregular, 
suited to the occasion and the subject ; and would divide 
the play sometimes into three, sometimes into seven or eight 
acts.* 

As practice has now established a different plan on the 
modern stage, has divided every play into five acts, and mad P -\ 
total pause in the representation at the end of each act, the poet 
must be careful that this pause shall fall in a proper place ; 
where there is a natural pause in the action, and where, if the 
imagination has any thing to supply, that is not represented on 
the stage, it may be supposed to have been transacted during 
the interval. 

The first act ought to contain a clear exposition of the subject 
It ought to be so managed as to awaken the curiosity of the 
spectators ; and at the same time to furnish them with materials 
for understanding the sequel. It should make them acquainted 
with the personages who are to appear, with their several views 
and interests, and with the situation of affairs at the time when 
the play commences. A striking introduction, such as the first 
speech of Almeria, in the Mourning Bride, and that of Lady 
Randolph, in Douglas, produces a happy effect : but this is what 
the subject will not always admit. In the ruder times of drama- 
tic writing, the exposition of the subject was wont to be made by 
a prologue, or by a single actor appearing, and giving full and 
direct information to the spectators. Some of iEschylus's and 
Euripides's plays are opened in this manner. But such an 
introduction is extremely inartificial, and therefore is now 
totally abolished ; and the subject made to open itself by 
conversation among the first actors who are brought upon the 
stage. 

During the course of the drama, in the second, third, and 
fourth acts, the plot should gradually thicken. The great object 
which the poet ought here to have in view, is, by interesting us 
in his story, to keep our passions always awake. As soon as he 
allows us to languish, there is no more tragic merit. He should 
therefore, introduce no personages but such as are necessary for 
carrying on the action. He should contrive to place those whom 

• See the dissertation prefixed to Franklin's Translation of Sophocles. 

2 s 



626 LECTURE XLV. 

he finds it proper to introduce, in the most interesting situations. 
He should have no scenes of idle conversation or mere declama- 
tion. The action of the play ought to be always advancing ; and 
as it advances, the suspense, and the concern of the spectators, 
to be raised more and more. This is the great excellency of 
Shakespeare, that his scenes are full of sentiment and action, 
never of mere discourse ; whereas, it is often a fault of the best 
French tragedians, that they allow the action to languish for 
the sake of a long and artful dialogue. Sentiment, passion, 
pity, and terror, should reign throughout a tragedy. Every 
thing should be full of movements. An useless incident, or an 
unnecessary conversation, weakens the interest which we take 
in the action, and renders us cold and inattentive. 

The fifth act is the seat of the catastrophe, or the unravelling 
of the plot, in which we always expect the art and genius of the 
poet to be most fully displayed. The first rule concerning it is, 
that it be brought about by probable and natural means. Hence 
all unravellings which turn upon disguised habits, rencounters by 
night, mistakes of one person for another, and other such theat- 
rical and romantic circumstances, are to be condemned as faulty. 
In the next place, the catastrophe ought always to be simple ; to 
depend on few events, and to include but few persons. Passion 
never rises so high when it is divided among many objects, as 
when it is directed towards one or a few. And it is still more 
checked, if the incidents be so complex and intricate, that the 
understanding is put on the stretch to trace them, when the 
heart should be wholly delivered up to emotion. The catastrophe 
of the Mourning Bride, as I formerly hinted, offends against 
both these rules. In the last place, the catastrophe of a tragedy 
ought to be the reign of pure sentiment and passion. In propor- 
tion as it approaches, every thing should warm and glow. No 
long discourses ; no cold reasonings ; no parade of- genius, in 
the midst of those solemn and awful events, that close some of 
the great revolutions of human fortune. There, if any where 
the poet must be simple, serious, pathetic ; and speak no Ian 
guage but that of nature. 

The ancients were fond of unravellings, which turned upon 
what is called, an ' anagnorisis/ or a discovery of some person 
to be different from what he was taken to be. When such 
discoveries are artfully conducted, and produced in critical situa- 
tions, they are extremely striking ; such as that famous one in 
Sophocles, which makes the whole subject of his CEdipus Tyran- 
nus, and which is, undoubtedly, the fullest of suspense, agitation, 



TRAGEDY". 027 

and terror, that ever was exhibited on any stage. Among the 
moderns, two of the most distinguished anagnorises are those 
contained in Voltaire's Merope, and Mr. Home's Douglas ; both 
of which are great master-pieces of the kind. 

It is not essential to the catastrophe of a tragedy, that it 
should end unhappily. In the course of the play there may be 
sufficient agitation and distress, and many tender emotions 
raised by the sufferings and dangers of the virtuous, though, in 
the end, good men are rendered successful. The tragic spirit, 
therefore, does not want scope upon this system ; and, accord- 
ingly, the Athalie of Racine, and some of Voltaire's finest plays, 
such as Alzire, Merope, and the Orphan of China, with some 
few English tragedies likewise, have a fortunate conclusion. 
But, in general, the spirit of tragedy, especially of English 
tragedy, leans more to the side of leaving the impression of 
virtuous sorrow full and strong upon the heart. 

A question, intimately connected with this subject, and 
which has employed the speculations of several philosophical 
critics, naturally occurs here : how it comes to pass that those 
emotions of sorrow which tragedy excites, afford any gratifica- 
tion to the mind ? For, is not sorrow, in its nature, a painful 
passion r is not real distress often occasioned to the spectators, 
by the dramatic representations at which they assist ? Do we 
not see their tears flow ? and yet. while the impression of what 
they have suffered remains upon their minds, they again assemble 
in crowds, to renew the same distresses. The question is not 
without difficulty, and various solutions of it have been proposed 
by ingenious men.* The most plain and satisfactory account of 
the matter appears to me to be the following. By the wise and 
gracious constitution of our nature, the exercise of all the social 
passions is attended with pleasure. Nothing is more pleasing 
and grateful, than love and friendship. Wherever man takes a 
strong interest in the concerns of his fellow-creatures, an internal 
satisfaction is made to accompany the feeling. Pity, or compas- 
sion, in particular, is, for wise ends, appointed to be one of the 
strongest instincts of our frame, and is attended with a peculiar 
attractive power. It is an affection which cannot but be produc. 
tive of some distress, on account of the sympathy with the 
sufferers, which it necessarily involves. But, as it includes 

• See Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric, Book I. ch. xi. where an ac- 
count is given of the hypotheses of different critics on this suhject; and where 
one is proposed, with which, iu the main, I agree. — See also Lord Kaimes's Es- 
says on the Principles of Morality, Essay I. ; and Mr. David Hume's .Essay on 
Tragedy. 

2 s 2 



628 LECTURE XLV. 

benevolence and friendship, it partakes, at the same time, of the 
agreeable and pleasing nature of those affeetions. The heart i 
warmed by kindness and humanity, at the same moment at which 
it is afflicted by the distresses of those with whom it sympathizes : 
and the pleasure arising trom those kind emotions, prevails so 
much in the mixture, and so far counterbalances the pain, as to 
render the state of the mind, upon the whole, agreeable. At 
the same time, the immediate pleasure, which always goes along 
with the operation of the benevolent and sympathetic affections, 
derives an addition from the approbation of our own minds. 
We are pleased with ourselves, for feeling as we ought, and for 
entering, with proper sorrow, into the concerns of the afflicted. 
In tragedy, besides, other adventitious circumstances concur to 
diminish the painful part of sympathy, and to increase the satis- 
faction attending it. We are, in some measure, relieved, by 
thinking that the cause of our distress is feigned, not real ; and 
we are also gratified by the charms of poetry, the propriety of 
sentiment and language, and the beauty of action. From the 
concurrence of these causes, the pleasure which we receive 
from tragedy, notwithstanding the distress it occasions, seems 
to me to be accounted for in a satisfactory manner. At the 
same time, it is to be observed, that, as there is always a mixture 
of pain in the pleasure, that pain is capable of being so much 
heightened, by the representation of incidents extremely direful, 
as to shock our feelings, and to render us averse, either to the 
reading of such tragedies, or to the beholding of them upon the 
stage. 

Having now spoken of the conduct of the subject throughout 
the acts, it is also necessary to take notice of the conduct of the 
several scenes which make up the acts of a play. 

The entrance of a new personage upon the stage, forms what 
is called a new scene. These scenes, or successive conversa- 
tions, should be closely linked and connected with each other ; 
and much of the art of dramatic composition is shown in main- 
taining this connexion. Two rules are necessary to be observed 
for this purpose. 

The first is, that, during the course of one act, the stage 
should never be left vacant, though but for a single moment ; 
that is, all the persons who have appeared in one scene, or con- 
versation, should never go off together, and be succeeded by a 
new set of persons appearing in the next scene, independent of 
the former. This makes a gap, or total interruption, in the 
representation, which, in effect, puts an end to that act. For, 



TRAG EDY. 029 

whenever the stage is evacuated, the act is closed. This rule 
is, very generally, ohserved by the French tragedians ; but the 
English writers, both of comedy and tragedy, seldom pay any 
regard to it. Their personages succeed one another upon the 
stage with so little connexion ; the union of their scenes is so 
much broken, that, with equal propriety, their plays might be 
divided into ten or twelve acts, as into five. 

The second rule, which the English writers also observe 
little better than the former, is, that no person shall come upon 
the stage or leave it, without a reason appearing to us, both for 
the one and the other. Nothing is more awkward, and contrary 
to art, than for an actor to enter, without our seeing any cause 
for his appearing in that scene, except that it was for the poet's 
purpose he should enter precisely at such a moment ; or for an 
actor to go away without any reason for his retiring, farther 
than that the poet had no more speeches to put into his mouth. 
This is managing the personoe dramatis exactly like so many 
puppets, who are moved by wires, to answer the call of the mas- 
ters of the show. Whereas the perfection of dramatic writing 
requires that every thing should be conducted in imitation, as 
near as possible, of some real transaction ; where we are let into 
the secret of all that is passing, where we behold persons before 
us always busy ; see them coming and going ; and know per- 
fectly whence they come, and whither they go, and about what 
they are employed. 

All that I have hitherto said, relates to the unity of the dra,- 
matic action. In order to render the unity of action more com- 
plete, critics have added the other two unities of time and place. 
The strict observance of these is more difficult, and, perhaps, 
not so necessary. The unity of place requires, that the scene 
should never be shifted ; but that the action of the play should be 
continued to the end, in the same place where it is supposed to 
begin. The unity of time, strictly taken, requires, that the time 
of the action be no longer than the time that is allowed for the 
representation of the play ; though Aristotle seems to have given 
the poet a little more liberty, and permitted the action to com- 
prehend the whole time of one day. 

The intention of both these rules is, to overcharge, as little 
as possible, the imagination of the spectators with improbable 
circumstances in the acting the play, and to bring the imitation 
more close to reality. We must observe, that the nature of 
dramatic exhibitions upon the Greek stage, subjected the ancient 
tragedians to a more strict observance of these unities than is 



«30 LECTURE XLV. 

necessary in modern theatres. I showed, that a Greek tragedy 
was one uninterrupted representation, from beginning to end. 
There was no division of acts ; no pauses or interval between 
them ; but the stage was continually full ; occupied either by the 
actors or the chorus. Hence, no room was left for the imagina- 
tion to go beyond the precise time and place of the representa- 
tion ; any more than is allowed during the continuance of one 
act, on the modern theatre. 

But the practice of suspending the spectacle totally for some 
little time between the acts, has made a great and material 
change ; gives more latitude to the imagination, and renders the 
ancient strict confinement to time and place less necessary. 
While the acting of the play is interrupted, the spectator can, 
without any great or violent effort, suppose a few hours to pass 
between every act ; or can suppose himself moved from one 
apartment of a palace, or one part of a city, to another : and, 
therefore, too strict an observance of these unities ought not to 
be preferred to higher beauties of execution, nor to the introduc- 
tion of more pathetic situations, which sometimes cannot be ac- 
complished in any other way, than by the transgression of these 
rules. 

On the ancient stage, we plainly see the poets struggling 
with many an inconvenience, in order to preserve those unities 
which were then so necessary. As the scene could never be 
shifted, they were obliged to make it always lie in some court of 
a palace, or some public area, to which all the persons con- 
cerned in the action might have equal access. This led to fre- 
quent improbabilities, by representing things as transacted 
there, which naturally ought to have been transacted before few 
witnesses, and in private apartments. The like improbabilities 
arose, from limiting themselves so much in point of time. Inci 
dents were unnaturally crowded ; and it is easy to point out 
several instances in the Greek tragedies, where events are sup- 
posed to pass during a song of the chorus, which must neces- 
sarily have employed many hours. 

But though it seems necessary to set modern poets free from 
a strict observance of these dramatic unities, yet we must re- 
member there are certain bounds to this liberty. Frequent and 
wild changes of time and place ; hurrying the spectator from 
one distant city, or country, to another ; or making several days 
or weeks to pass during the course of the representation, are 
liberties which shock the imagination, which give to the perfor- 
mance a romantic and unnatural arjpearance, and, therefore, 



TRAGEDY. 031 

cannot be allowed in any dramatic writer, who aspires to cor- 
rectness. In particular, we must remember, that it is only be- 
tween the acts that any liberty can be given for going beyond " 
the unities of time and place. During the course of each act, 
they ought to be strictly observed ; that is, during each act the 
scene should continue the same, and no more time should be 
supposed to pass, than is employed in the representation of that 
act. This is a rule which the French tragedians regularly ob- 
serve. To violate this rule, as is too often done by the English ; 
to change the place, and shift the scene, in the midst of one act, 
shows great incorrectness, and destroys the whole intention of 
the division of a play into acts. Mr. Addison's Cato is remark- 
able beyond most English tragedies, for regularity of conduct. 
The author has limited himself in time, to a single day ; and in 
place, has maintained the most rigorous unity. The scene is 
never changed ; and the whole action passes in the hall of Cato's 
house, at Utica. 

In general, the nearer a poet can bring the dramatic repre- 
sentation, in all its circumstances, to an imitation of nature and 
real life, the impression which he makes on us will always be 
the more perfect. Probability, as I observed at the beginning 
of the lecture, is highly essential to the conduct of the tragic 
action, and we are always hurt by the want of it. It is this that 
makes the observance of the dramatic unities to be of conse- 
quence, as far as they can be observed, without sacrificing more 
material beauties. It is not, as has been sometimes said, that, 
by the preservation of the unities of time and place, spectators 
are deceived into a belief of the reality of the objects which are 
set before them on the stage ; and that, when those unities are 
violated, the charm is broken, and they discover the whole to be 
a fiction. No such deception as this can ever be accomplished. 
No one ever imagines himself to be at Athens, or Rome, when a 
Greek or Roman subject is presented on the stage. He knows 
the whole to be an imitation only ; but he requires that imitation 
to be conducted with skill and veri-similitude. His pleasure, 
the entertainment which he expects, the interest which he is to 
take in the story, all depend on its being so conducted. His 
imagination, therefore, seeks to aid the imitation, and to rest 
on the probability ; and the poet, who shocks him by impro- 
bable circumstances, and by awkward, unskilful imitation, de- 
prives him of his pleasure, and leaves him hurt and displeased. 
This is the whole mystery of the theatrical illusion. 



032 



LECTURE XLV1 

TRAGEDY— GREEK— FRENCH— ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 

Having treated of the dramatic action in tragedy, I pro- 
ceed next to treat of the characters most proper to he exhibited. 
It has been thought, by several critics, that the nature of tragedy 
requires the principal personages to be always of illustrious 
character, and of high or princely rank ; whose misfortunes and 
sufferings, it is said, take faster hold of the imagination, and 
impress the heart more forcibly than similar events happening 
to persons in private life. But this is more specious than solid. 
It is refuted by facts. For the distresses of Desdemona, 
Monimia, and Belvidera, interest us as deeply as if they had 
been princesses or queens. The dignity of tragedy does, indeed, 
require that there should be nothing degrading or mean in the 
circumstances of the persons which it exhibits, but it requires 
nothing more. Their high rank may render the spectacle more 
splendid, and the subject seemingly of more importance, but 
conduces very little to its being interesting or pathetic ; which 
depends entirely on the nature of the tale, on the art of the 
poet in conducting it, and on the sentiments to which it gives 
occasion. In every rank of life, the relations of father, hus- 
band, son, brother, lover, or friend, lay the foundation of those 
affecting situations, which make man's heart feel for man. 

The moral characters of the persons represented, are of 
much greater consequence 4han the external circumstances in 
which the poet places them. Nothing, indeed, in the conduct of 
tragedy, demands a poet's attention more, than so to describe 
his personages, and so to order the incidents which relate to 
them, as shall leave upon the spectators impressions favourable 
to virtue, and to the administration of Providence. It is not ne- 
cessary, for this end, that poetical justice, as it is called, should 
be observed in the catastrophe of the piece. This has been long 
exploded from tragedy ; the end of which is, to afl'ect us with 
pity for the virtuous in distress, and to afford a probable repre- 
sentation of the state of human life, where calamities often befal 
the best, and a mixed portion of good and evil is appointed 
for all. But, withal, the author must beware of shocking our 
minds with such representations of life as tend to raise horror 
or to render virtue an object of aversion. Though innocent 
persons suffer, their sufferings ought to be attended with such 



TRAGEDY. 03.1 

circumstances, as shall make virtue appear amiable and venera- 
ble ; and shall render their condition, on the whole, preferable to 
that of bad men, who have prevailed against them. The stings 
and the remorse of guilt, must ever be represented as productive 
of greater miseries, than any that the bad can bring upon the 
good. 

Aristotle's observations on the characters proper for tragedy, 
are very judicious. He is of opinion, that perfect unmixed 
characters, either of good or ill men, are not the fittest to be in- 
troduced. The distresses of the one, being wholly unmerited, 
hurt and shock us ; and the sufferings of the other occasion no 
pity. Mixed characters, such as in fact we meet with in the world, 
afford the most proper field for displaying, without any bad 
effect on morals, the vicissitudes of life ; and they interest us 
the more deeply, as they display emotions and passions which we 
have all been conscious of. When such persons fall into distress 
through the vices of others, the subject may be very pathetic ; 
but it is always more instructive when a person has been himself 
the cause of his misfortune, and when his misfortune is occasioned 
by the violence of passion, or by some weakness incident to 
human nature. Such subjects both dispose us to the deepest 
sympathy, and administer useful warnings to us for our own 
conduct. 

Upon these principles, it surprises me that the story of 
(Edipus should have been so much celebrated by all the critics, 
as one of the fittest subjects for tragedy, and so often brought 
upon the stage, not by Sophocles only, but by Corneille also, 
and Voltaire. An innocent person, one in the main, of a virtu- 
ous character, through no crime of his own, nay not by the vices 
of others, but through mere fatality and blind chance, is involved 
in the greatest of all human miseries. In a casual rencounter 
he kills his father, without knowing him ; he afterwards is mar- 
ried to his own mother ; and, discovering himself, in the end, to 
have committed both parricide and incest, he becomes frantic, 
and dies in the utmost misery. Such a subject excites horror 
rather than pity. As it is conducted by Sophocles, it is indeed 
extremely affecting ; but it conveys no instruction ; it awakens 
in the mind no tender sympathy ; it leaves no impression favour- 
able to virtue or humanity. 

It must be acknowledged, that the subjects of the ancient 
Greek tragedies were too often founded on mere destiny and 
inevitable misfortunes. They were too much mixed with their 
talcs about oracles, and the vengeance of the gods, which led to 



G34 LECTURE XLVl. 

many an incident sufficiently melancholy and tragical ; but ra- 
ther purely tragical, than useful or moral. Hence, both the 
GEdipuses of Sophocles, the Iphigenia in Aulis, the Hecuba of 
Euripides, and several of the like kind In the course of the 
drama, many moral sentiments occurred. But the instruction 
which the fable of the play conveyed, seldom was any more 
than that reverence was owing to the gods, and submission due 
to the decrees of Destiny. Modern tragedy has aimed at a 
higher object, by becoming more the theatre of passion ; point- 
ing out to men the consequences of their own misconduct ; 
showing the direful effects which ambition, jealousy, love, resent- 
ment, and other such strong emotions, when misguided, or left 
unrestrained, produce upon human life. An Othello, hurried by 
jealousy to murder his innocent wife ; a Jaffier, ensnared by re- 
sentment and want, to engage in a conspiracy, and then stung 
with remorse, and involved in ruin ; a Siffredi, through the 
deceit which he employs for public-spirited ends, bringing des- 
truction on all whom he loved ; a Calista, seduced into a criminal 
intrigue, which overwhelms herself, her father, and all her 
friends, in misery : these, and such as these, are the examples 
which tragedy now displays to public view ; and by means 
of which it inculcates on men the proper government of their 
passions. 

Of all the passions which furnish matter to tragedy, that 
which has most occupied the modern stage, is love. To the an- 
cient theatre it was in a manner wholly unknown. In few of 
their tragedies is it ever mentioned ; and I remember no more 
than one which turns upon it, the Hippolitus of Euripides. This 
was owing to the national manners of the Greeks, and to that 
greater separation of the two sexes from one another, than has 
taken place in modern times ; aided too, perhaps, by this circum- 
stance, that no female actors ever appeared on the ancient stage. 
But though no reason appears for the total exclusion of love 
from the theatre, yet with what justice or propriety it has usurp- 
ed so much place, as to be in a manner the sole hinge of mo- 
dern tragedy, may be much questioned. Voltaire, who is no 
less eminent as a critic than as a poet, declares loudly and 
strongly against this predominancy of love, as both degrading 
the majesty, and confining the natural limits of tragedy. And 
assuredly, the mixing of it perpetually with all the great and 
solemn revolutions of human fortune which belong to the tragic 
stage, tends to give tragedy too much the air of gallantry, and 
juvenile entertainment. The Athalie of Racine, the Merope of 



TRAGEDY. 635 

Voltaire, the Douglas of Mr. Home, are sufficient proofs, that 
without any assistance from love, the drama is capable of pro- 
ducing its highest effects upon the mind. 

This seems to be clear, that wherever love is introduced 
into tragedy, it ought to reign in it, and to give rise to the 
principal action. It ought to be that sort of love which posses- 
ses all the force and majesty of passion, and which occasions 
great and important consequences. For nothing can have a 
worse effect, or be more debasing to tragedy, than, together 
with the manly and heroic passions, to mingle a trifling love 
intrigue, as a sort of seasoning to the play. The bad effects 
of this are sufficiently conspicuous both in the Cato of Mr. Ad- 
dison, as I had occasion before to remark, and in the Iphigenie 
of Racine. 

After a tragic poet has arranged his subject, and chosen his 
personages, the next thing he must attend to, is the propriety of 
sentiments ; that they be perfectly suited to the characters of 
those persons to whom they are attributed, and to the situations 
in which they are placed. The necessity of observing this gene- 
ral rule is so obvious, that I need not insist upon it. It is prin- 
cipally in the pathetic parts, that both the difficulty and Hie 
importance of it are the greatest. Tragedy is the region of 
passion. We come to it, expecting to be moved ; and let the 
poet be ever so judicious in his conduct, moral in his intentions, 
and elegant in his style, yet if he fails in the pathetic, he has no 
tragic merit ; we return cold and disappointed from the perfor- 
mance, and never desire to meet with it more. 

To paint passion so truly and justly as to strike the hearts of 
the hearers with full sympathy, is a prerogative of genius given 
to few. It requires strong and ardent sensibility of mind. It 
requires the author to have the power of entering deeply into 
the characters which he draws ; of becoming for a moment the 
very person whom he exhibits, and of assuming all his feelings. 
For, as I have often had occasion to observe, there is no pos- 
sibility of speaking properly the language of any passion, 
without feeling it ; and it is to the absence or deadness of real 
emotion,, that we must ascribe the want of success in so many 
tragic writers, when they attempt being pathetic. 

No man, for instance, when he is under the strong agitations 
of anger or grief, or any such violent passion, ever thinks of 
describing to another what his feelings at that time are ; or of 
telling them what he resembles. This never was, and never will 



AM LECTURE XLVI. 

be, the language of any person, when he is deeply moved. It 
is the language of one who describes coolly the condition of 
that person to another; or it is the language of the passionate 
person himself, after his emotion has subsided, relating what 
his situation was in the moments of passion. Yet this sort of 
secondary description is what tragic poets too often give us, 
instead of the native and primary language of passion. Thus, 
in Mr. Addison's Cato, when Lucia confesses to Portius her 
love for him, but, at the same time, swears with the greatest 
solemnity, that in the present situation of their country she will 
never marry him ; Portius receives this unexpected sentence 
with the utmost astonishment and grief; at least the poet wants 
to make us believe that he so received it. How does he express 
these feelings ? 

Fix'd in astonishment, I gaze upon thee, 
Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav'n, 
"Who pants for breath, end stiffens yet alive 
In dreadful looks ; a monument of wrath. 

This makes his whole reply to Lucia. Now did any person, 
who was of a sudden astonished and overwhelmed with sorrow, 
ever since the creation of the world, express himself in this 
manner ? This is indeed an excellent description to be given us 
by another, of a person who was in such a situation. Nothing 
would have been more proper for a by-stander, recounting this 
conference, than to have said, 

Fix'd in astonishment he gaz'd npon her, 
Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav'n, 
Who pants for breath, &c. 

But the person, who is himself concerned, speaks, on such an 
occasion, in a very different manner. He gives vent to his 
feelings ; he pleads for pity ; he dwells upon the cause of his 
grief and astonishment ; but never thinks of describing his own 
person and looks, and showing us, by a simile, what he resem 
bles. Such representations of passions are no better in poetry, 
than it would be in painting, to make a label issue from the 
mouth of a figure, bidding us remark, that this figure represents 
an astonished or a grieved person. 

On some other occasions, when poets do not employ this 
sort of descriptive language in passion, they are too apt to run 
into forced and unnatural thoughts, in order to exaggerate tho 
feelings of persons, whom they would paint as very strongly 



TRAGEDY. 037 

moved. When Osmyn, in the Mourning Bride, after parting 
with Almeria, regrets in a long soliloquy, that his eyes only see 
objects that are present, and cannot see Almeria after she is 
gone ; when Jane Shore, in Mr. Rowe's tragedy, on meeting 
with her husband in her extreme distress, and finding that he 
had forgiven her, calls on the rains to give her their drops, and 
the springs to give her their streams, that she may never want a 
supply of tears ; in such passages, we see very plainly, that it 
is neither Osmyn, nor Jane Shore, that speak ; but the poet 
himself in his own person, who, instead of assuming the feelings 
of those whom he means to exhibit, and speaking as they would 
have done in such situations, is straining his fancy, and spurring 
up his genius to say something that shall be uncommonly strong 
and lively. 

If we attend to the language that is spoken by persons under 
the influence of real passion, we shall find it always plain and 
simple ; abounding indeed with those figures which express a 
disturbed and impetuous state of mind, such as interrogations, 
exclamations, and apostrophes ; but never employing those 
which belong to the mere embellishment and parade of speech* 
We never meet with any subtilty or refinement, in the senti- 
ments of real passion. The thoughts which passion suggests, 
are always plain and obvious ones, arising directly from its 
object. Passion never reasons, nor speculates, till its ardour 
begins to cool. It never leads to long discourse or declamation. 
On the contrary, it expresses itself most commonly in short, 
broken, and interrupted speeches ; corresponding to the violent 
and desultory emotions of the mind. 

When we examine the French tragedians by these principles, 
which seem clearly founded in nature, we find them often defi- 
cient. Though in many parts of tragic composition, they have 
great merit ; though in exciting soft and tender emotions, some 
of them are very successful ; yet in the high and strong pathetic, 
they generally fail. Their passionate speeches too often run 
into long declamation. There is too much reasoning and refine- 
ment ; too much pomp and studied beauty in them. They rather 
convey a feeble impression of passion, than awaken any strong 
sympathy in the reader's mind. 

Sophocles and Euripides arc much more successful in this 
part of composition. In their pathetic scenes, we find no unna- 
tural refinement ; no exaggerated thoughts. They set before 
us the plain and direct feelings of nature, in simple expressiva 
language ; and therefore, on great occasions, they seldom fail 



638 LECTURE XLV1. 

of touching the heart.* This too is Shakespeare's great excel- 
lency ; and to this it is principally owing, that his dramatic pro- 
ductions, notwithstanding their many imperfections, have been 
so long the favourites of the public. He is more faithful to the 
true language of nature, in the midst of passion, than any wri- 
ter. He gives us this language, unadulterated by art ; and more 
instances of it can be quoted from him than from all other tragic 
poets taken together. I shall refer only to that admirable scene 
in Macbeth, where Macduff receives the account of his wife and 
all his children being slaughtered in his absence. The emotions, 
first of grief, and then of the most fierce resentment rising 
against Macbeth, are painted in such a manner, that there is no 
heart but must feel them, and no fancy can conceive any thing 
more expressive of nature. 

With regard to moral sentiments and reflections in tragedies, 
it is clear that they must not recur too often. They lose their effect, 
when unseasonably crowded. They render the play pedantic, 
and declamatory. This is remarkably the case with those Latin 
tragedies which go under the name of Seneca, which are little 
more than a collection of declamations and moral sentences, 
wrought up with a quaint brilliancy, which suited the prevailing 
taste of that age. 

I am not, however, of opinion, that moral reflections ought 
to be altogether omitted in tragedies. When properly introdu- 
ced, they give dignity to the composition, and, on many occa- 
sions, they are extremely natural. When persons are under any 
uncommon distress, when they are beholding in others, or ex- 
periencing in themselves, the vicissitudes of human fortune ; 
indeed, when they are placed in any of the great and trying sit- 
uations of life, serious and moral reflections naturally occur to 
them, whether they be persons of much virtue or not. Almost 
every human being is, on such occasions, disposed to be serious. 
It is then the natural tone of the mind ; and therefore no tragic 
poet should omit such proper opportunities, when they occur 

• Nothing, for instance, can be more touching and pathetic than the address 
which Medea, in Euripides, makes to her children, when she had formed the 
resolution of putting them to death : and nothing more natural, than the conflict 
which she is described as suffering within herself on that occasion : 

4>«3, $i5' rl rrpotrbipxiaQi p! o'/i/javw, t«xv« j 
It irpoo , ye\ari tcv jravujraTpv yiKwv ; 
Ai, W T< Zpicrai ; xaptta. yap oi^«tou, 
TuvaTxif, o'fi/ta (fiailplv w; t;Jov texkuv. 
Oix f?» iuvotifiriv' yaiptrai |SouX«i3/*«Ta, &C— F.l'R. Med. 1. 1040. 



TRAGEDY. 030 

for favouring the interests of virtue. Cardinal Wolsey's solilo- 
quy upon his fall, for instance, in Shakespeare, when he bids a 
long farewell to all his greatness, and the advices which he 
afterwards gives to Cromwell, are, in his situation, extremely 
natural ; touch and please all readers ; and are at once instruc- 
tive and affecting. Much of the merit of Mr. Addison's Cato, 
depends upon that moral turn of thought which distinguishes' 
it. I have had occasion, both in this lecture and in the prece- 
ding one, to take notice of some of its defects ; and certainly 
neither for warmth of passion nor proper conduct of the plot, 
is it at all eminent. It does not, however, follow that it is desti- 
tute of merit. For, by the purity and beauty of the language, 
by the dignity of Cato's character, by that ardour of public 
spirit, and those virtuous sentiments of which it is full, it has 
always commanded high regard ; and has, both in our own 
country and among foreigners, acquired no small reputation. 

The style and versification of tragedy ought to be free, easy, 
and varied. Our blank verse is happily suited to this purpose. 
It has sufficient majesty for raising the style ; it can descend to 
the simple and familiar ; it is susceptible of great variety of 
cadence ; and is ouite free from the constraint and monotony of 
rhyme, tui- monotony is, above all things, to be avoided by a 
tragic poet. If he maintain every where the same stateliness of 
style, if he uniformly keep up the same run of measure and har- 
mony in his verse, he cannot fail of becoming insipid. He 
should not indeed sink into fiat and careless lines ; his style 
should always have force and dignity, but not the uniform dig- 
nity of epic poetry. It should assume that briskness and ease, 
which is suited to the freedom of dialogue, and the fluctuations 
of passion. 

One of the greatest misfortunes of the French tragedy is, its 
being always written in rhyme. The nature of the French lan- 
guage, indeed, requires this, in order to distinguish the style 
from mere prose. But it fetters the freedom of the tragic 
dialogue, fills it with a languid monotony, and is, in a manner, 
fatal to the high strength and power of passion. Voltaire 
maintains, that the difficulty of composing in French rhyme, is 
one great cause of the pleasure which the audience receives 
from the composition. Tragedy would be ruined, says he, if 
we were to write it in blank verse; take away the difficulty, and 
you take away the whole merit. A strange idea ! as if the enter- 
tainment of the audience arose, not from the emotions which the 
poet is successful in awakening, but from a reflection on the toil 



040 LECTURE XLVI. 

which he endured in his closet, from assorting maie and female 
rhymes. With regard to those splendid comparisons in rhym*, 
and strings of couplets, with which it was, some time ago, 
fashionable for our English poets to conclude, not only every 
act of a tragedy, but sometimes also the most interesting scenes, 
nothing need be said, but that they were the most perfect bar- 
barisms ; childish ornaments, introduced to please a false taste 
in the audience ; and now universally laid aside. 

Having thus treated of all the different parts of tragedy, I 
shall conclude the subject, with a short view of the Greek, the 
French, and the English stage, and with observations on the 
principal writers. 

Most of the distinguishing characters of the Greek tragedy 
have been already occasionally mentioned. It was embellished 
with the lyric poetry of the chorus, of the origin of which, and 
of the advantages and disadvantages attending it, I treated fully 
in the preceding lecture. The plot was always exceedingly sim- 
ple. It admitted of few incidents. It was conducted with a 
very exact regard to the unities of action, time, and place. Ma- 
chinery, or the intervention of the gods, was employed ; and, 
which is very faulty, the final unravelling sometimes made to turn 
upon it. Love, except in one or two instances, was never ad- 
mitted into the Greek tragedy. Their subjects were often 
founded on destiny, or inevitable misfortunes. A vein of re- 
ligious and moral sentiment always runs through them ; but they 
made less use than the moderns of the combat of the passions, 
and of the distresses which our passions bring upon us. Their 
plots were all taken from the ancient traditionary stories of their 
own nation. Hercules furnished matter for two tragedies : the 
history of (Edipus, king of Thebes, and his unfortunate family, 
for six : the war of Troy, with its consequences, for no fewer 
than seventeen. There is only one, of later date than this ; 
which is the Persce, or expedition of Xerxes, by iEschylus. 

iEschylus is the father of Greek tragedy, and exhibits both 
the beauties and the defects of an early original writer. He is 
bold, nervous, and animated ; but very obscure and difficult to 
be understood ; partly by reason of the incorrect state in which 
we have his works, (they having suffered more by time, than any of 
the ancient tragedians,) and partly on account of the nature of 
his style, which is crowded with metaphors, often harsh and 
tumid. He abounds with martial ideas and descriptions. He 
has much fire and elevation ; less of tenderness than of force. 
He delights in the marvellous. The ghost of Darius in the 



GREEK TRAGEDY. C4i 

Persae, the inspiration of Cassandra in Agamemnon, and the 
songs of the Furies in the Eumenides, are beautiful in their kind, 
and strongly expressive of his genius. 

Sophocles is the most masterly of the three Greek tragedians; 
the most correct in the conduct of his subjects ; the most just 
and sublime in his sentiments. He is eminent for his descriptive 
talent. The relation of the death of (Edipus, in his (Edipus 
Coloneus, and of the death of Hasmon and Antigone, in his An- 
tigone, are perfect patterns of description to tragic poets. Euri- 
pides is esteemed more tender than Sopho cles ; and he is fuller 
of moral sentiments. But, in the conduct of his plays, he is more 
incorrect and negligent ; his expositions or openings of the sub- 
ject are made in a less artful manner ; and the songs of his chorus, 
though remarkably poetical, have, commonly, less connexion with 
the main action, than those of Sophocles. Both Euripides and 
Sophocles, however, have very high merit as tragic poets. They 
are elegant and beautiful in their style ; just, for the most part, 
in their thoughts ; they speak with the voice of nature ; and, 
making allowance for the difference of ancient and modern ideas, 
in the midst of all their simplicity, they are touching and in- 
teresting. 

The circumstances of theatrical representation on the stages 
of Greece and Rome, were, in several respects, very singular, 
and widely different from what obtains among us. Not only 
were the songs of the chorus accompanied with instrumental 
music, but, as the Abbe du Bos, in his Reflections on Poetry and 
Painting, has proved, with much curious erudition,- the dialogue 
part had also a modulation of its own, which was capable of 
being set to notes ; it was carried on in a sort of recitative be- 
tween the actors, and was supported by instruments. He has 
farther attempted to prove, but the proof seems more incomplete, 
that on some occasions, on the Roman stage, the pronouncing 
and gesticulating parts were divided ; that one actor spoke, and 
another performed the gestures and motions corresponding to 
what the first said. The actors in tragedy wore a long robe, 
called syrma, which flowed upon the stage. They were raised 
upon cothurni, which rendered their stature uncommonly high ; 
and they always played in masks. These masks were like hel- 
mets, which covered the whole head ; the mouths of them were 
so contrived, as to give an artificial sound to the voice, in order 
to make it be heard over their vast theatres ; and the visage was 
so formed and painted, as to suit the age, characters, or dispo- 
sitions of the persons represented. When, during the course of 

2 T 



042 LECTURE XLVJ. 

one scene, different emotions were to appear in the same person, 
the mask is said to have been so painted, that the actor, by 
turning- one or other profile of his face to the spectators, ex- 
pressed the change of the situation. This, however, was a con- 
trivance attended witli many disadvantages. The mask must 
have deprived the spectators of all the pleasure which arises 
from the natural animated expression of the eye, and the counte- 
nance ; and, joined with the other circumstances which I have 
mentioned, is apt to give us but an unfavourable idea of the 
dramatic representations of the ancients. In defence of them, it 
must, at the same time, be remembered, that their theatres wer6 
vastly more extensive in the area than ours, and filled with im- 
mense crowds. They were always uncovered, and exposed to 
the open air. The actors were beheld at a much greater dis- 
tance, and of course much more imperfectly by the bulk of the 
spectators ; which both rendered their looks of less consecpience, 
and might make it in some degree necessary that their features 
should be exaggerated, the sound of their voices enlarged, and 
their whole appearance magnified beyond the life, in order to 
make the stronger impression. It is certain, that, as dramatic 
spectacles were the favourite entertainments of the Greeks and 
Romans, the attention given to their proper exhibition, and the 
magnificence of the apparatus bestowed on their theatres, far 
exceeded any thing that has been attempted in modern ages. 

In the compositions of some of the French dramatic writers, 
particularly Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, tragedy has ap- 
peared with much lustre and dignity. They must be allowed to 
have improved upon the ancients, in introducing more incidents, 
a greater variety of passions, a fuller display of characters, and 
in rendering the subject thereby more interesting. They have 
studied to imitate the ancient models in regularity of conduct. 
They are attentive to all the unities, and to all the decorums of 
sentiment and morality ; and their style is, generally, very poeti- 
cal and elegant. What an English taste is most apt to censure, 
in them, is the want of fervour, strength, and the natural lan- 
guage of passion. There is often too much conversation in 
their pieces, instead of action. They are too declamatory, as 
was before observed, when they should be passionate ; too re- 
fined, when they should be simple. Voltaire freely acknow- 
ledges these defects of the French theatre. He admits, that 
their best tragedies do not make a sufficient impression on the 
heart; that the gallantry which reigns in them, and the long fine- 
spun dialogue with which they over-abound, frequently spread a 



FRENCH TRAGEDY. 643 

languor over them ; that the authors seemed to be afraid of being 
too tragic ; and very candidly gives it as his judgment, that ? 
union of the vehemence and the action, which characterize the 
English theatre, with the correctness and decorum of the French 
theatre, would be necessary to form a perfect tragedy. 

Corneille, who is properly the father of French tragedy, is 
distinguished by the majesty and grandeur of his sentiments, 
and the fruitfulness of his imagination. His genius was un- 
questionably very rich, but seemed more turned towards the 
epic than the tragic vein ; for, in general, he is magnificent and 
splendid, rather than tender and touching. He is the most 
declamatory of all the French tragedians. He united the co- 
piousness of Dryden with the fire of Lucan, and he resembles 
them also in their faults, in their extravagance and impetuosity. 
He has composed a great number of tragedies, very unequal in 
their merit. His best and most esteemed pieces are, the Cid, 
Horace, Polyeucte, and Cinna. 

Racine, as a tragic poet, is much superior to Corneille. He 
wanted the copiousness and grandeur of Corneille's imagination ; 
but is free from his bombast, and excels him greatly in tender- 
ness. Few poets, indeed, are more tender and moving than 
Racine. His Phaedra, his Andromaque, his Athalie, and his 
Mithridate, are excellent dramatic performances, and do no 
small honour to the French stage. His language and versifica- 
tion are uncommonly beautiful. Of all the French authors, he 
appears to me to have most excelled in poetical style ; to have 
managed their rhyme with the greatest advantage and facility, 
and to have given it the most complete harmony. Voltaire has, 
again and again, pronounced Racine's Athalie to be the chef- 
d'oeuvre of the French stage. It is altogether a sacred drama, 
and owes much of its elevation to the majesty of religion ; but it 
is less tender and interesting than Andromaque. Racine has 
formed two of his plays upon plans of Euripides. In the Phaedra 
he is extremely successful, but not so, in my opinion, in the 
Iphigenie ; where he has degraded the ancient characters by un- 
seasonable gallantry. Achilles is a French lover ; and Eriphile, 
a modern lady.* 

* The characters of Corneille and Racine are happily contrasted with each 
other, in the following beautiful lines of a French poet, which will gratify several 
readers : 

CORNEILLE. 
Ilium nobilihus majestas evehit alts 
Vertice tangentem nnbes : stant ordine loneo 
Magnanimi circum heroes, fulgentibus omnes 

2 t 2 



fl-U LECTURE XLVI. 

Voltaire, in several of his tragedies, is inferior to none of his 
predecessors. In one great article, he has outdone them all, in 
the delicate and interesting situations which he has contrived to 
introduce. In these lies his chief strength. He is not, indeed, 
exempt from the defects of the other French tragedians, of want- 
ing force, and of being sometimes too long and declamatory in 
his speeches ; but his characters are drawn with spirit, his events 
are striking, and in his sentiments there is much elevation. His 
Zayre, Alzire, Merope, and Orphan of China, are four capital 
tragedies, and deserve the highest praise. What one might per- 
haps not expect, Voltaire is, in the strain of his sentiments, the 
most religious, and the most moral, of all tragic poets. 

Though the musical dramas of Metastasio fulfil not the cha- 
racter of just and regular tragedies, they approach however so 
near to it, and possess so much merit, that it would be unjust to 



Iniluti trabeis ; Polyeuctus, Cinna, Seleucus, 
Et Cidus, et rugis signatus Horatius ora. 

RACINE. 

Hunc circnmvolitat penna alludente Cupido, 
Vincla triumphatis insternens florea scenis ; 
Colligit li!BC mollis genius, levibusque catenis 
Heroas stringit dociles, Pyrrhosque, Titosque, 
Pelidasque, ac Hippolytos, qui sponte sequuntur 
Servitium, facilesque ferunt in vincula palmas. 
Ingentes nimirum animos Cornelius ingens, 
Et quales habet ipse, suis heroibus afflat 
Sublimes sensus ; vox olli mascula, magnum es. 
Nee mortale sonans. Rapido fluit impetu vena, 
Vena Sophocleis non inficianda fluentis. 
Racinius Gallis haud visos ante theatris 
Mollior ingenio teneros induxit amores. 
Magnanimos quamvis sensus sub pectore verset 
Agrippina, licet Romano robore Burrhus 
Polleat, et magni generosa superbia Pori 
Non semel eniteat, tamen esse ad mollia natum 
Credideris vatem ; vox olli mellea, lenis 
Spiritus est ; non ille animis vim concitus infert, 
Et caecos animorura aditus rimatur, et imis 
Mentibus occultos, siren penetrabilis, ictus 
Insinuans, palpando ferit, laeditque placendo. 
Vena fluit facili non intermissa nitore, 
Nee rapidos semper volvit cum murmure fluctus, 
Agmine sed leni fluitat. Seu gram in a lambit 
Rivulus, et caeco per prata virentia lapsu, 
Aufugiens, tacita fluit indeprensus arena ; 
Flore micant ripae illimes ; hue vulgus amantum 
Convolat, et lacrymis auget rivalibus undas ; 
Singultus undas refeiunt, gemitusque sonoros 
Ingeminant, molli gemitus imitante susurro. 

Templum Tragoediae, per Fh. Mars v, 
e Societate Jesu. 



ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 045 

pass them over without notice. For the elegance of style, the 
charms of lyric poetry, and the beauties of sentiment, they are 
eminent. They abound in well contrived and interesting situa- 
tions. The dialogue, by its closeness and rapidity, carries a 
considerable resemblance to that of the ancient Greek trage- 
dies ; and is both more animated and more natural, than the 
long declamation of the French theatre. But the shortness of 
the several dramas, and the intermixture of so much lyric poetry 
as belongs to this sort of composition, often occasions the course 
of the incidents to be hurried on too quickly, and prevents that 
consistent display of characters, and that full preparation of events^ 
which are necessary to give a proper verisimilitude to tragedy. 

It only now remains to speak of the state of tragedy in 
Great Britain ; the general character of which is, that it is more 
animated and passionate than French tragedy, but more irregular 
and incorrect, and less attentive to decorum and to elegance. 
The pathetic, it must always be remembered, is the soul of tra- 
gedy. The English, therefore, must be allowed to have aimed at 
the highest species of excellence ; though in the execution, they 
have not always joined the other beauties that ought to accom- 
pany the pathetic. 

The first object which presents itself to us on the English 
theatre, is the great Shakespeare. Great he may be justly cal- 
led, as the extent and force of his natural genius, both for trage- 
dy and comedy, are altogether unrivalled.* But, at the same 
time, it is genius shooting wild; deficient in just taste, and al- 
together unassisted by knowledge or art. Long has he been 
idolized by the British nation ; much has been said, and much 
has been written concerning him ; criticism has been drawn to 
the very dregs, in commentaries upon his words and witticisms J 
and yet it remains, to this day, i-n doubt, whether his beauties or 
his faults be greatest. Admirable scenes and passages, without 
number, there are in his plays ; passages beyond what are to be 

* The character which Dry den has drawn of Shakespeare is not only just, but 
uncommonly elegant and happy. " He was the man who, of all modern, and 
perhaps ancient, poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the 
images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, 
but luckily. When he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. 
They who accuse him of wanting learning, give him the greatest commendation. 
He was naturally learned. He needed not the spectacles of books, to read na- 
ture. He looked inward, and found her there. I cannot say he is every where 
alike. Were he so, I should do him injury to compare him to the greatest of 
mankind. He is many times flat and insipid ; his comic wit degenerating into 
clenches ; his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some 
great occasion is presented to him." — Dryden's Essay of Dramatic Poetry. 



04G LECTURE XLVI. 

found in any other dramatic writer ; but there is hardly any one 
of his plays which can be called altogether a good one, or which 
can be read with uninterrupted pleasure from beginning to end 
Besides extreme irregularities in conduct, and grotesque mix- 
tures of serious and comic in one piece, we are often inter- 
rupted by unnatural thoughts, harsh expressions, a certain 
obscure bombast, and a play upon words, which he is fond of 
pursuing ; and these interruptions to our pleasure too frequently 
occur, on occasions when we would least wish to meet with 
them. All these faults, however, Shakespeare redeems by 
two of the greatest excellencies which any tragic poet can 
possess ; his lively and diversified paintings of character ; 
his strong and natural expressions of passion. These are his two 
chief virtues ; on these his merit rests. Notwithstanding 
his many absurdities, all the while we are reading his plays, we 
find ourselves in the midst of our fellows ; we meet with men, 
vulgar perhaps in their manners, coarse or harsh in their senti- 
ments, but still they are men ; they speak with human voices, 
and are actuated by human passions ; we are interested in what 
they say or do, because we feel that they are of the same nature 
with ourselves. It is therefore no matter of wonder, that from 
the more polished and regular, but more cold and artificial per- 
formances of other poets, the public should return with pleasure 
to such warm and genuine representations of human nature. 
Shakespeare possesses likewise the merit of having created, for 
himself, a sort of world of preternatural beings. His witches, 
ghosts, fairies, and spirits of all kinds, are described with such 
circumstances of awful and mysterious solemnity, and speak a 
language so peculiar to themselves, as strongly to affect the ima- 
gination. His two master-pieces, and in which, in my opinion, 
the strength of his genius chiefly appears, are Othello and Mac- 
beth. With regard to his historical plays, they are, properly 
speaking, neither tragedies nor comedies ; but a peculiar species 
of dramatic entertainment, calculated to describe the manners of 
the times of which he treats, to exhibit the principal characters, 
and to fix our imagination on the most interesting events and re- 
volutions of our own country.* 

After the age of Shakespeare, we can produce in the English 
language several detached tragedies of considerable merit. But 
we have not many dramatic writers whose whole works are en- 

* See. an excellent defence of Shakespeare's historical plays, and several 
just observations on his peculiar excellencies as a tragic poet, in Mrs. Mon. 
tague's Essay on the Writings and Genius of Shakespeare. 



ENGLISH TRAGEDY. G47 

titled either to particular criticism, or very high praise. In the 
tragedies of Dryden and Lee, there is much fire, but mixed with 
much fustian and rant. Lee's Theodosius, or the Force of Love, 
is the best of his pieces, and, in some of the scenes, does not want 
tenderness and warmth, though romantic in the plan, and extra- 
vagant in the sentiments. Otway was endowed with a high 
portion of the tragic spirit ; which appears to great advantage 
in his two principal tragedies, the Orphan, and Venice Preser- 
ved. In these, he is perhaps too tragic ; the distresses being so 
deep as to tear and overwhelm the mind. He is a writer, doubt- 
less, of genius and strong passion ; but, at the same time, ex- 
ceedingly gross and indelicate. No tragedies are less moral 
than those of Otway. There are no generous or noble senti- 
ments in them ; but a licentious spirit often discovers itself. He 
is the very opposite of the French decorum ; and has contriv- 
ed to introduce obscenity and indecent allusions into the midst 
of deep tragedy. 

Rowe's tragedies make a contrast to those of Otway. He 
is full of elevated and moral sentiments. The poetry is often 
good, and the language always pure and elegant j but in most 
of his plays he is too cold and uninteresting ; and flowery 
rather than tragic. Two, however, he has produced, which 
deserve to be exempted from this censure, Jane Shoi-e and the 
Fair Penitent ; in both of which, there are so many tender and 
truly pathetic scenes, as to render them justly favourites of the 
public. 

Dr. Young's Revenge, is a play which discovers genius and 
fire ; but wants tenderness, and turns too much upon the shock- 
ing and direful passions. In Congreve's Mourning Bride, there 
are some fine situations, and much good poetry. The two first 
acts are admirable. The meeting of Almeria with her husband 
Osmyn, in the tomb of Anselmo, is one of the most solemn and 
striking situations to be found in any tragedy. The defects in 
the catastrophe, I pointed out in the last lecture. Mr. Thom- 
son's tragedies are too full of a stiff morality, which renders 
them dull and formal. Tancred and Sigismunda far excels 
the rest ; and for the plot, the characters, and sentiments, 
justly deserves a place among the best English tragedies. 
Of later pieces, and of living authors, it is not my purpose to 
treit. 

Upon the whole ; reviewing the tragic compositions of dif- 
ferent nations, the following conclusions arise. A Greek tragedy 
is the relation of any distressful or melancholy incident ; some- 



(M8 LECTURE XLVll. 

times the effect of passion or crime , oftener of the decree ol the 
gods, simply exposed ; without much variety of parts or events, 
but naturally and beautifully set before us ; heightened by the 
poetry of the chorus. A French tragedy is a series of artful 
and refined conversations ; founded upon a variety of tragical 
and interesting situations ; carried on with little action and vehe- 
mence ; but with much poetical beauty, and high propriety and 
decorum. An English tragedy is the combat of strong passions, 
set before us in all their violence ; producing deep disasters ; 
often irregularly conducted ; abounding in action ; and filling the 
spectators with grief. The ancient tragedies were more natural 
and simple ; the modern are more artful and complex. Among 
the French, there is more correctness ; among the English, more 
fire. Andromaque and Zayre, soften ; Othello and Venice Pre- 
served, rend the heart. It deserves remark, that three of the 
greatest master-pieces of the French tragic theatre, turn wholly 
upon religious subjects ; the Athalie of Racine, the Polyeucte of 
Corneille, and the Zayre of Voltaire. The first is founded 
upon an historical passage of the Old Testament ; in the other 
two, the distress arises from the zeal and attachment of the 
principal personages to the Christian faith ; and in all the 
three, the authors have, with much propriety, availed themselves 
of the majesty which may be derived from religious ideas. 



LECTURE XLVII. 

COMEDY— GREEK AND ROMAN— FRENCH- 
ENGLISH COMEDY. 

Comedy is sufficiently discriminated from tragedy, by its 
general spirit and strain. While pity and terror, and the other 
strong passions, form the province of the latter, the chief or 
rather sole instrument of the former, is ridicule. Comedy 
proposes for its object, neither the great sufferings, nor the 
great crimes of men ; but their follies and slighter vices, 
those parts of their character, which raise in beholders a sense 
of impropriety, which expose them to be censured and laughed 
at by others, or which render them troublesome in civil society. 
This general idea of comedy, as a satirical exhibition of the 
improprieties and follies of mankind, is an idea very moral and 
useful. There is nothing in the nature, or general plan of this 
kind of composition, that renders it liable to censure. To polish 



COMEDY. 049 

the manners of men, to promote attention to the proper de- 
corums of social behaviour, and, above all, to render vice ridi- 
culous, is doing a real service to the world. Many vices might 
be more successfully exploded, by employing ridicule against 
them, than by serious attacks and arguments. At the same time 
it must be confessed, that ridicule is an instrument of such a 
nature, that when managed by unskilful, or improper hands, there 
is hazard of its doing mischief, instead of good, to society. 
For ridicule is far from being, as some have maintained it to be, 
a proper test of truth. On the contrary, it is apt to mislead, 
and seduce, by the colours which it throws upon its objects ; and 
it is often more difficult to judge, whether these colours be natu- 
ral and proper, than it is to distinguish between simple truth and 
error. Licentious writers, therefore, of the comic class, have 
too often had it in their power to cast a ridicule upon characters 
and objects which did not deserve it. But this is a fault, not 
owing to the nature of comedy, but to the genius and turn of the 
writers of it. In the hands of a loose immoral author, comedy 
will mislead and corrupt ; while, in those of a virtuous and well- 
intentioned one, it will be not only a gay and innocent, but a 
laudable and useful entertainment. French comedy is an excel- 
lent school of manners ; while English comedy has been too 
often the school of vice. 

The rules respecting the dramatic action, which I delivered 
in the first lecture upon tragedy, belong equally to comedy; 
and hence, of course, our disquisitions concerning it are short- 
ened. It is equally necessary to both these forms of dramatic 
composition, that there be a proper unity of action and subject, 
that the unities of time and place be, as much as possible, pre- 
served : that is, that the time of the action be brought within 
reasonable bounds ; and the place of the action never changed, 
at least, not during the course of each act; that the several 
scenes or successive conversations be properly linked together ; 
that the stage be never totally evacuated till the act closes ; and 
that the reason should appear to us, why the personages, who 
fill up the different scenes, enter and go off the stage, at the time 
when they are made to do so. The scope of all these rules, I 
showed, was to bring the imitation as near as possible to pro- 
bability; which is always necessary, in order to any imitation 
giving us pleasure. This reason requires, perhaps, a stricter 
observance of the dramatic rules in comedy, than in tragedy. 
For the action of comedy being more familiar to us than that of 
tragedy, more like what we are accustomed to see in common 



650 LECTURE XLVII. 

life, we judge more easily of what is probable, and are more hurt 
by the want of it. The probable and the natural, both in the 
conduct of the story, and in the characters and sentiments of 
the persons who are introduced, are the great foundation, it must 
always be remembered, of the whole beauty of comedy. 

The subjects of tragedy are not limited to any country, or 
to any age. The tragic poet may lay his scene in whatever 
region he pleases. He may form his subject upon the history, 
either of his own, or of a foreign country ; and he may take it 
from any period that is agreeable to him, however remote in 
time. The reverse of this holds in comedy, for a clear and ob- 
vious reason. In the great vices, great virtues, and high pas- 
sions, men of all countries and ages resemble one another ; and 
are therefore equally subjects for the tragic muse. But those 
decorums of behaviour, those lesser discriminations of character, 
which afford subject for comedy, change with the differences of 
countries and times ; and can never be so well understood by 
foreigners as by natives. We weep for the heroes of Greece 
and Rome, as freely as we do for those of our own country : 
but we are touched with the lidicule of such manners and such 
characters only, as we see and know ; and therefore the scene 
and subject of comedy should always be laid in our own country 
and in our own times. The comic poet, who aims at correcting 
improprieties and follies of behaviour, should study " to catch 
the manners living as they rise." It is not his business to 
amuse us with a tale of the last age, or with a Spanish or a 
French intrigue ; but to give us pictures taken from among our- 
selves ; to satirize reigning and present vices ; to exhibit to the 
age a faithful copy of itself, with its humours, its follies, and its 
extravagancies. It is only by laying his plan in this manner, 
that he can add weight and dignity to the entertainment which 
he gives us. Plautus, it is true, and Terence, did not follow 
this rule. They laid the scene of their comedies in Greece, and 
adopted the Greek laws and customs. But it must be re- 
membered, that comedy was, in their age, but a new entertain- 
ment in Rome ; and that then they contented themselves with 
imitating, often with translating merely, the comedies of 
Menander, and other Greek writers. In after times, it is known 
that the Romans had the " Comoedia Togata," or what was 
founded on their own manners, as well as the " Comoedia Pal- 
liata," or what was taken from the Greeks. 

Comedy may be divided into two kinds ; comedy of charac- 
ter, and comedy of intrigue. In the latter, the plot, or the ac- 






COMEDY. 651 

tion of the play, is made the principal object. In the former 
the display of some peculiar character is chiefly aimed at ; the 
action is contrived altogether with a view to this end, and is 
treated as subordinate to it. The French abound most in 
comedies of character. All Moliere's capital pieces are of this 
sort ; his Avare, for instance, Misanthrope, Tartuffe ; and such 
are Destouches' also, and those of the other chief French 
comedians. The English abound more in comedies of intrigue. 
In the plays of Congreve, and, in general, in all our comedies, 
there is much more story, more bustle and action, than on the 
French theatre. 

In order to give this sort of composition its proper advan- 
tage, these two kinds should be properly mixed together. With- 
out some interesting and well-conducted story, mere conversation 
is apt to become insipid. There should be always as much in- 
trigue, as to give us something to wish, and something to fear. 
The incidents should so succeed one another, as to produce 
striking situations, and to fix our attention ; while they afford at 
the same time a proper field for the exhibition of character. For 
the poet must never forget, that to exhibit characters and man- 
ners, is his principal object. The action in comedy, though it 
demands his care, in order to render it animated and natural, is 
a less significant and important part of the performance, than the 
action in tragedy : as in comedy, it is what men say, and how 
they behave, that draws our attention, rather than what they 
perform, or what they suffer. Hence it is a great fault to over- 
charge it with too much intrigue ; and those intricate Spanish 
plots that were fashionable for a while, carried on by perplexed 
apartments, dark entries, and disguised habits, are now justly 
condemned and laid aside ; for by such conduct, the main use of 
comedy was lost. The attention of the spectators, instead of 
being directed towards any display of characters, was fixed upon 
the surprising turns and revolutions of the intrigue ; and comedy 
was changed into a mere novel. 

In the management of characters, one of the most common 
faults of comic writers, is the carrying of them too far beyond 
life. Wherever ridicule is concerned, it is indeed extremely 
difficult to hit the precise point where true wit ends, and buf- 
foonery begins. When the miser, for instance, in Plautus, 
searching the person whom he suspects for having stolen his 
casket, after examining first his right hand, and then his left, 
cries out, " Ostende etiam tertiam," " Show me your third hand" 
(a stroke too which Moliere has copied from him), there is no 



652 LECTURE XLVIl. 

one but must be sensible of the extravagance. Certain degrees 
of exaggeration are allowed to the comedian ; but there are 
limits set to it by nature and good taste ; and supposing the 
miser to be ever so much engrossed by his jealousy and his sus- 
picions, it is impossible to conceive any man in his wits suspect- 
ing another of having more than two hands. 

Characters in comedy ought to be clearly distinguished from 
one another ; but the artificial contrasting of characters, and the 
introducing them always in pairs, and by opposites, give too 
theatrical and affected an air to the piece. This is " become too 
common a resource of comic writers, in order to heighten their 
characters, and display them to more advantage. As soon as 
the violent and impatient person arrives upon the stage, the 
spectator knows that, in the next scene, he is to be contrasted 
with the mild and good-natured man ; or if one of the lovers in- 
troduced be remarkably gay and airy, we are sure that his com- 
panion is to be a grave and serious lover ; like Frankly and 
Bellamy, Clarinda and Jacintha, in Dr. Hoadley's Suspicious 
Husband. Such production of characters by pairs, is like the 
employment of the figure antithesis in discourse, which, as I 
formerly observed, gives brilliancy indeed upon occasions, but is 
too apparently a rhetorical artifice. In every sort of composi- 
tion, the perfection of art is to conceal art. A masterly writer 
will therefore give us his characters, distinguished rather by 
such shades of diversity as are commonly found in society, than 
marked with such strong oppositions, as are rarely brought into 
actual contrast, in any of the circumstances of life. 

The style of comedy ought to be pure, elegant, and lively, 
very seldom rising higher than the ordinary tone of polite con- 
versation ; and, upon no occasion, descending into vulgar, mean, 
and gross expressions. Here the French rhyme, which, in many 
of their comedies they have preserved, occurs as an unnatural 
bondage. Certainly, if prose belongs to any composition what- 
ever, it is to that which imitates the conversation of men in ordi- 
nary life. One of the most difficult circumstances in writing 
comedy, and one too, upon which the success of it very much 
depends, is to maintain throughout, a current of easy, genteel, 
unaffected dialogue, without pertness and flippancy ; without too 
much studied and unseasonable wit ; without dulness and for- 
mality. Too few of our English comedies are distinguished for 
this happy turn of conversation ; most of them are liable to one 
or other of the exceptions I have mentioned. The Careless Hus- 
band, and, perhaps, we may add the Provoked Husband, and 



ANCIENT COMEDY. U53 

the Suspicious Husband, seem to have more merit than most of 
them, for easy and natural dialogue. 

These are the chief observations that occur to me, concern- 
ing the general principles of this species of dramatic writing, 
as distinguished from tragedy. But its nature and spirit will 
be still better understood, by a short history of its progress ; 
and a view of the manner in which it has been carried on by 
authors of different nations. 

Tragedy .is generally supposed to have been more ancient 
among the Greeks than comedy. We have fewer lights con- 
cerning the origin and progress of the latter. What is most 
probable, is, that, like the other, it took its rise accidentally 
from the diversions peculiar to the feast of Bacchus, and from 
Thespis and his cart ; till, by degrees, it diverged into an enter- 
tainment of a quite different nature from solemn and heroic 
tragedy. Critics distinguish three stages of comedy among 
the Greeks ; which they call the ancient, the middle, and the 
new. 

The ancient comedy consisted in direct and avowed satire 
against particular known persons, who were brought upon the 
stage by name. Of this nature are the plays of Aristophanes, 
eleven of which are still extant ; plays of a very singular nature, 
and wholly different from all compositions which have, since 
that age, borne the name of comedy. They show what a turbu- 
lent and licentious republic that of Athens was, and what un- 
restrained scope the Athenians gave to ridicule, when they could 
suffer the most illustrious personages of their state, their gene- 
rals, and their magistrates, Cleon, Lamachus, Nicias, Alcibiades, 
not to mention Socrates the philosopher, and Euripides the 
poet, to be publicly made the subject of comedy. Several of 
Aristophanes' plays are wholly political satires upon public 
management, and the conduct of generals and statesmen, during 
the Peloponnesian war. They are so full of political allegories 
and allusions, that it is impossible to understand them without 
a considerable knowledge of the history of those times. They 
abound too with parodies of the great tragic poets, particularly 
of Euripides; to whom the author bore much enmity, and 
has written two comedies, almost wholly in order to ridicule 

him. 

Vivacity, satire, and buffoonery, are the characteristics of 
Aristophanes. Genius and force he displays upon many occa- 
sions ; but his performances, upon the whole, are not calculated 
to give us any high opinion of the Attic taste of wit, in his age 



G54 LECTURE XLVII. 

They seem, indeed, to have been composed for the mob. Th 
ridicule employed in them is extravagant ; the wit, for the most 
part, buffoonish and farcical ; the personal raillery, biting and 
cruel ; and the obscenity that reigns in them, is gross and in- 
tolerable. The treatment, given by this comedian to Socrates 
the philosopher, in his play of the Clouds, is well known ; but 
however it might tend to disparage Socrates in the public es- 
teem, P. Brumoy, in his Theatre Grec, makes it appear, that it 
could not have been, as is commonly supposed, the cause of 
decreeing the death of that philosopher, which did not happen 
till twenty-three years after the representation of Aristophanes's 
Clouds. There is a chorus in Aristophanes's plays ; but alto- 
gether of an irregular kind. It is partly serious, partly comic ; 
sometimes mingles in the action, sometimes addresses the spec- 
tators, defends the author, and attacks his enemies. 

Soon after the days of Aristophanes, the liberty of attacking 
persons on the stage by name, being found of dangerous conse- 
quence to the public peace, was prohibited by law. The chorus 
also, was, at this period, banished from the comic theatre, as 
having been an instrument of too much license and abuse. 
Then, what is called the middle comedy took rise, which was 
no other than an elusion of the law. Fictitious names, indeed, 
were employed ; but living persons were still attacked, and 
described in such a manner as to be sufficiently known. Of 
these comic pieces, we have no remains. To them succeeded 
the new comedy ; w hen the stage being obliged to desist wholly 
from personal ridicule, became, what it is now, the picture 
of manners and characters, but not of particular persons. 
Menander was the most distinguished author of this kind 
among the Greeks ; and both from the imitations of him by 
Terence, and the account given of him by Plutarch, we have 
much reason to regret that his writings have perished; as he 
appears to have reformed, in a very high degree, the public 
taste, and to have set the model of correct, elegant, and moral 
comedy. 

The only remains which we now have of the new comedy, 
among the ancients, are the plays of Plautus and Terence 
both of whom were formed upon the Greek writers. Plautus 
is distinguished for very expressive language, and a great de- 
gree of the vis comica. As he wrote in an early period, he 
bears several marks of the rudeness of the dramatic art, among 
the Romans, in his time. He opens his plays with prologues, 
which sometimes pre-occupy the subject of the whole piece. 



SPANISH COMEDY. 655 

The representation too, and the action of the comedy, are some- 
times confounded ; the actor departing from his character, an/ 
addressing the audience. There is too much low wit and scur- 
rility in Plautus ; too much of quaint conceit, and play upon 
words. But withal, he displays more variety, and more force 
than Terence. His characters are always strongly marked, 
though sometimes coarsely. His Amphytrion has been copied 
both by Moliere and by Dryden ; and his Miser also (in the 
Audularia), is the foundation of a capital play of Moliere's, 
which has been once and again imitated on the English stage. 
Than Terence, nothing can be more delicate, more polished, and 
elegant. His style i3 a model of the purest and most graceful 
latinity. His dialogue is always decent and correct ; and he 
possesses beyond most writers, the art of relating with that 
beautiful picturesque simplicity, which never fails to please. 
His morality is, in general, unexceptionable. The situations 
which he introduces, are often tender and interesting, and many 
of his sentiments touch the heart. Hence, he may be considered 
as the founder of that serious comedy, which has, of late years, 
been revived, and of which I shall have occasion afterwards to 
speak. If he fails in any thing, it is in sprightliness and 
strength. Both in his characters, and in his plots, there is too 
much sameness and uniformity throughout all his plays ; he 
copied Menander, and is said to have equalled him.* In 
order to form a perfect comic author, an union would be requi- 
site of the spirit and fire of Plautus, with the grace and correct- 
ness of Terence. 

When we enter on the view of modern comedy, one of the 
first objects which presents itself, is the Spanish theatre, which 
has been remarkably fertile in dramatic productions. Lopez 
de Vega, Guillin, and Calderon, are the chief Spanish comedians. 
Lopez de Vega, who is by much the most famous of them, is 
said to have written above a thousand plays ; but our surprise 
at the number of his productions will be diminished, by being 
informed of their nature. From the account which M. Perron 
de Castera, a French writer, gives of them, it would seem, that 

* Julius Csesar lias given us his opinion of Terence, in the following lines, 
which are preserved in the Life of Terence, ascribed to Suetonius : 

Tu quoque, tu in summis, o dimidiate Menander 
Poneris, et merito, puri sermonis amator; 
Lenibus atque ntinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis 
Comica, ut aequato virtus polleret honoie 
Cum Graecis, neque in hac despectus parte jaceres; 
UiHini hoc maceror, et doleo tibi deesse, Terenti. 



650 LECTURE XLVII. 

our Sliakspeare is perfectly a regular and methodical author, 
in comparison of Lopez. He throws aside all regard to the 
three unities, or to any of the established forms of dramatic 
writing. One play often includes many years, nay, the whole 
life of a man. The scene, during the first act, is laid in Spain, 
the next in Italy, and the third in Africa. His plays are mostly 
of the historical kind, founded on the annals of the country ; and 
they are, generally, a sort of tragic-comedies ; or a mixture of 
heroic speeches ; serious incidents, war and slaughter, with 
much ridicule and buffoonery. Angels and gods, virtues and 
vices, Christian religion and pagan mythology, are all fre- 
quently jumbled together. In short, they are all plays like no 
other dramatic compositions ; full of the romantic and extrava- 
gant. At the same time, it is generally admitted, that in the 
works of Lopez de Vega, there are frequent marks of genius, 
and much force of imagination ; many well drawn characters ; 
many happy situations ; many striking and interesting sur- 
prises ; and, from the source of his rich invention, the dramatic 
writers of other countries are said to have frequently drawn 
their materials. He himself apologizes for the extreme irregu- 
larity of his composition, from the prevailing taste of his coun- 
trymen, who delighted in a variety of events, in strange and 
surprising adventures, and a labyrinth of intrigues, much more 
than in a natural and regularly conducted story. 

The general characters of the French comic theatre are, 
that it is correct, chaste, and decent. Several writers of con- 
siderable note it has produced, such as Regnard, Dufresny, 
Dancourt, and Marivaux ; but the dramatic author in whom 
the French glory most, and whom they justly place at the head 
of all their comedians, is the famous Moliere. There is, in- 
deed, no author, in all the fruitful and distinguished age of Louis 
XIV., who has attained a higher reputation than Moliere ; or 
who has more nearly reached the summit of perfection in his 
own art, according to the judgment of all the French critics. 
Voltaire boldly pronounces him to be the most eminent comic 
poet of any age or country; nor, perhaps, is this the decision 
of mere partiality ; for, taking him upon the whole, I know none 
who deserves to be preferred to him. Moliere is always the 
satirist only of vice or folly. He has selected a great variety of 
ridiculous characters peculiar to the times in which he lived, 
and he has generally placed the ridicule justly. He possessed 
strong comic powers ; he is full of mirth and pleasantry, and 
bis pleasantry is always innocent His comedies in verse, such 



ENGLISH COMEDY. 057 

as the Misanthrope and Tartuffe, are a kind of dignified 
comedy, in which vice is exposed, in the style of elegant and 
polite satire. In his prose comedies, though there is abundance 
of ridicule, yet there is never any thing found to offend a modest 
ear, or to throw contempt on sobriety and virtue. Together 
with those high qualities, Moliere has also some defects, which 
Voltaire, though his professed panegyrist, candidly admits. He 
is acknowledged not to be happy in the unravelling of his plots. 
Attentive more to the strong exhibition of characters, than to 
the conduct of the intrigue, his unravelling is frequently brought 
on with too little preparation, and in an improbable manner. 
In his verse comedies, he is sometimes not sufficiently interest- 
ing, and too full of long speeches ; and in his more risible pieces 
in prose, he is censured for being too farcical. Few writers, 
however, if any, ever possessed the spirit, or attained the true 
end of comedy, so perfectly, upon the whole, as Moliere. His 
Tartuffe, in the style of grave comedy, and his Avare, in the 
gay, are accounted his two capital productions. 

From the English theatre, we are naturally led to expect a 
greater variety of original characters in comedy, and bolder 
strokes of wit and humour, than are to be found on. any other 
modern stage. Humour is, in a great measure, the peculiar 
province of the English nation. The nature of such a free 
government as ours, and that unrestrained liberty which our 
manners allow to every man, of living entirely after his own 
taste, afford full scope to the display of singularity of character, 
and to the indulgence of humour in all its forms. Whereas, 
in France, the influence of a despotic court, the more established 
subordination of ranks, and the universal observance of the 
forms of politeness and decorum, spread a much greater uni- 
formity over the outward behaviour and characters of men. 
Hence comedy has a more ample field, and can flow with a 
much freer vein in Britain, than in France. But it is extremely 
unfortunate, that, together with the freedom and boldness of 
the comic spirit in Britain, there should have been joined such 
a spirit of indecency and licentiousness, as has disgraced English 
comedy beyond that of any nation since the days of Aristo- 
phanes. 

The first age, however, of English comedy, was not infected 
by this spirit. Neither the plays of Shakspeare, nor those of 
Ben Jonson, can be accused of immoral tendency. Shak- 
speare's general character, which I gave rn the last lecture, 
appears with as great advantage in his comedies as in his 

2 u 



658 LECTURE XLVII. 

tragedies ; a strong, fertile, and creative genius, irregular in 
conduct, employed too often in amusing the mob, but singu- 
larly rich and happy in the description of characters and man- 
ners. Jonson is more regular in the conduct of his pieces, but 
stiff and pedantic ; though not destitute of dramatic genius. 
In the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, much fancy and inven- 
tion appear, and several beautiful passages may be found. But, 
in general, they abound with romantic and improbable incidents, 
with overcharged and unnatural characters, and with coarse and 
gross allusions. These comedies of the last age, by the change 
of public manners, and of the turn of conversation, since their 
time, are now become too obsolete to be very agreeable. For 
we must observe, that comedy, depending much on the pre- 
vailing modes of external behaviour, becomes sooner antiquated 
than any other species of writing ; and, when antiquated, it 
seems harsh to us, and loses its power of pleasing. This is 
especially the case with respect to the comedies of our own 
country, where the change of manners is more sensible and strik- 
ing, than in any foreign production. In our own country, the 
present mode of behaviour is always the standard of politeness ; 
and whatever departs from it appears uncouth ; whereas in the 
writings of foreigners, we are less acquainted with any standard 
of this kind, and, of course, are less hurt by the want of it. 
Plautus appeared more antiquated to the Romans, in the age of 
Augustus, than he does now to us. It is a high proof of Shak- 
speare's uncommon genius, that, notwithstanding these disadvan- 
tages, his character of Falstaff is to this day admired, and his 
Merry Wives of Windsor read with pleasure. 

It was not till the era of the restoration of King Charles II. 
that the licentiousness which was observed, at that period, to 
infect the court, and the nation in general, seized, in a peculiar 
manner, upon comedy as its province, and, for almost a whole 
century, retained possession of it. It was then, first, that the 
rake became the predominant character, and, with some excep- 
tions, the hero of every comedy. The ridicule was thrown, not 
upon vice and folly, but much more commonly upon chastity and 
sobriety. At the end of the play, indeed, the rake is commonly, 
in appearance, reformed, and professes that he is to become a 
sober man ; but throughout the play, he is set up as the model 
of a fine gentleman ; and the agreeable impression made by a 
sort of sprightly licentiousness, is left upon the imagination, as a 
picture of the pleasurable enjoyment of life ; while the reforma- 
tion passes slightly away, as a matter of mere form. To what 



ENGLISH COMEDY. OoO 

sort of moral conduct such public entertainments as these tend to 
form the youth of both sexes, may be easily imagined. Yet this 
has been the spirit which has prevailed upon the comic stage of 
Great Britain, not only during the reign of Charles II., but 
throughout the reigns of King William and Queen Anne, and 
down to the days of King George II. 

Dryden was the first considerable dramatic writer after the 
Restoration ; in whose comedies, as in all his works, there are 
found many strokes of genius, mixed with great carelessness, 
and visible marks of hasty composition. As he sought to please 
only, he went along with the manners of the times ; and has 
carried through all his comedies that vein of dissolute licenti- 
ousness, which was then fashionable. In some of them, the in- 
decency was so gross as to occasion, even in that age, a prohi- 
bition of being brought upon the stage.* 

Since his time, the writers of comedy of greatest note have 
been Cibber, Vanburgh, Farquhar, and Congreve. Cibber has 
written a great many comedies ; and though, in several of them, 
there be much sprightliness, and a certain pert vivacity peculiar 
to him, yet they are so forced and unnatural in the incidents, as 
to have generally sunk into obscurity, except two, which havp 
always continued in high favour with the public, the Careless 
Husband, and the Provoked Husband. The former is remark- 
able for the polite and easy turn of the dialogue ; and, with the 
exception of one indelicate scene, is tolerably moral too in the 
conduct, and in the tendency. The latter, the Provoked Hus- 
band, (which was the joint production of Vanburgh and Cibber,) 
is, perhaps, on the whole, the best comedy in the English lan- 
guage. It is liable, indeed, to one critical objection, of having 
a double plot : as the incidents of the Wronghead family, and 
those of Lord Townly's are separate, and independent of each 
other. But this irregularity is compensated by the natural 
characters, the fine painting, and the happy strokes of humour 
with which it abounds. We are, indeed, surprised to find 
so unexceptionable a comedy proceeding from two such 
loose authors ; for, in its general strain, it is calculated to 

* " The mirth which he excites in comedy will, perhaps, be found not so 
much to arise from any original humour, or peculiarity of character, nicely dis- 
tinguished, and diligently pursued, as from incidents and circumstances, artifices 
and surprises, from jests of action, rather than sentiment. What he had cf hu- 
morous, or passionate, he seems to have had, not from nature, but from other 
p oets ; if not always a plagiary, yet, at least, an imitator."— Johnson's Life of 
Dryden. 

2 u 2 



660 LECTURE XLVII. 

expose licentiousness and folly ; and would do honour to any 
stage. 

Sir John Vanburgh has spirit, wit, and ease ; but he is, to 
the last degree, gross and indelicate. He is one of the most 
immoral of all our comedians. His Provoked Wife is full of 
such indecent sentiments and allusions, as ought to explode it 
out of all reputable society. His Relapse is equally censurable ; 
and these are his only two considerable pieces. Congreve is, 
unquestionably, a writer of genius. He is lively, witty, and 
sparkling ; full of character, and full of action. His chief fault 
as a comic writer is, that he overflows with wit. It is often in- 
troduced unseasonably ; and, almost every where, there is too 
great a proportion of it for natural well-bred conversation.* 
Farquhar is a light and gay writer; less correct, and less 
sparkling than Congreve ; but he has more ease, and, perhaps, 
fully as great a share of the vis comica. The two best, and least 
exceptionable of his plays, are the Recruiting Officer, and the 
Beaux Stratagem. I say the least exceptionable ; for, in 
general, the tendency of both Congreve and Farquhar's plays 
is immoral. Throughout them all, the rake, the loose intrigue, 
and the life of licentiousness, are the objects continually held 
up to view ; as if the assemblies of a great and polished nation 
could be amused with none but vicious objects. The indelicacy 
of these writers, in the female characters which they introduce, 
is particularly remarkable. Nothing can be more awkward 
than their representations of a woman of virtue and honour. 
Indeed, there are hardly any female characters in their plays 
except two ; women of loose principles, or when a virtuous 
character is attempted to be drawn, women of affected manners. 

The censure which I have now passed upon these celebrated 
comedians, is far from being overstrained or severe. Ac- 
customed to the indelicacy of our own comedy, and amused 
with the wit and humour of it, its immorality too easily escapes 
our observation. But all foreigners, the French especially, 
who are accustomed to a better regulated and more decent 
stage, speak of it with surprise and astonishment. Voltaire, 
who is assuredly none of the most austere moralists, plumes 
himself not a little upon the superior biemeance of the French 

• Dr. Johnson says of him, in his Life, that " his personages are a kind of 
intellectual gladiators ; every sentence is to ward, or to strike ; the contest of 
smartness is never intermitted : his wit is a meteor, playing to and fro, with al- 
ternate coruscations." 



ENGLISH COMEDY. (Wl 

theatre ; and says, that the language of English comedy is the 
language of debauchery, not of politeness. M. Moralt, in his 
Letters upon the French and English nations, ascribes the cor- 
ruption of manners in London to comedy, as its chief cause. 
Their comedy, he says, is like that of no other country ; it is the 
school in which the youth of both sexes familiarize themselves 
with vice, which is never represented there as vice, but as mere 
gaiety. As for comedies, says the ingenious M. Diderot, in his 
Observations upon Dramatic Poetry, the English have none ; 
they have, in their place, satires, full indeed of gaiety and force, 
but without morals, and without taste ; " sans moeurs et sans 
gout." There is no wonder, therefore, that Lord Kaimes, in his 
Elements of Criticism, should have expressed himself, upon this 
subject, of the indelicacy of English comedy, in terms much 
stronger than any that I have used ; concluding his invective 
against it in these words : K How odious ought those writers to 
be, who thus spread infection through their native country ; 
employing the talents which they have received from their 
Maker most traitorously against himself, by endeavouring to 
corrupt and disfigure his creatures ! If the comedies of Congreve 
did not rack him with remorse in his last moments, he must have 
been lost to all sense of virtue." Vol. ii. p. 479. 

I am happy, however, to have it in my power to observe, 
that, of late years, a sensible reformation has begun to take 
place in English comedy. We have, at last, become ashamed 
of making our public entertainments rest wholly upon profligate 
characters and scenes ; and our later comedies, of any reputa- 
tion, are much purified from the licentiousness of former times. 
If they have not the spirit, the ease, and the wit of Congreve 
and Farquhar, in which respect they must be confessed to be 
somewhat deficient ; this praise, however, they justly merit, of 
being innocent and moral. 

For this reformation, we are, questionless, much indebted to 
the French theatre, which has not only been, at all times, more 
chaste and inoffensive than ours, but has, within these few years, 
produced a species of comedy, of a still graver turn than any 
that I have yet mentioned. This, which is called the serious or 
tender comedy, and was termed by its opposers, la comedie 
larmoyante, is not altogether a modern invention. Several of 
Terence's plays, as the Andria, in particular, partake of this 
character ; and as we know that Terence copied Menander, we 
have sufficient reason to believe that his comedies, also, were of 
the same kind. The nature of this composition does not by 



GG2 LECTURE XLVII. 

any means exclude gaiety and ridicule ; but it lays the chief 
stress upon tender and interesting situations ; it aims at being 
sentimental, and touching the heart by means of the capital 
incidents ; it makes our pleasure arise, not so much from the 
laughter which it excites, as from the tears of affection and joy 
which it draws forth. 

In English, Steele's Conscious Lovers is a comedy which 
approaches to this character, and it has always been favourably 
received by the public. In French, there are several dramatic 
compositions of this kind, which possess considerable merit 
and reputation ; such as the Melanide, and Prejuge a la Mode, 
of La Chaussee ; the Pere de Famille, of Diderot ; the Cenie, 
of Mad. Graffigny ; and the Nanine, and L'Enfant Prodigue, of 
Voltaire. 

When this form of comedy first appeared in France, it ex- 
cited a great controversy among the critics. It was objected to 
as a dangerous and unjustifiable innovation in composition. It 
is not comedy, said they, for it is not founded on laughter and 
ridicule. It is not tragedy, for it does not involve us in sorrow. 
By what name then can it be called ; or what pretensions hath it 
to be comprehended under dramatic writing? But this was 
trifling, in the most egregious manner, with critical names and 
distinctions, as if these had invariably fixed the essence, and 
ascertained the limits, of every sort of composition. Assuredly, 
it is not necessary that all comedies should be formed on one 
precise model. Some may be entirely light and gay ; others 
may be more serious ; some may be of a mixed nature ; and all 
of them, properly executed, may furnish agreeable and useful 
entertainment to the public, by suiting the different tastes of 
men.* Serious and tender comedy has no title to claim to itself 
the possession of the stage, to the exclusion of ridicule and 
gaiety. But when it retains only its proper place, without 
usurping the province of any other; when it is carried on with 
resemblance to real life, and without introducing romantic and 
unnatural situations ; it may certainly prove both an interesting 
and an agreeable species of dramatic writing. If it become in- 
sipid and drawling, this must be imputed to the fault of the 
author, not to the nature of the composition, which may admit 
much liveliness and vivacity. 

* " II y a beauconp de tres-bonnes pieces, ou il ne regne que de la gaiete ; 
d'autres toutes serienses ; d'autres melangees; d'autres, ou l'attendrissement va 
jusqn'aux larmes. II ne faut donner exclusion a aucun genre ; *et si Ton n e 
demandoit, quel genre est le meilleur? je. repondrois, celui qui est le mieux 
traite."— Voltaire. 



ENGLISH COMEDY. 

lit general, whatever form comedy assumes, whether gay 
or serious, it may always be esteemed a mark of society ad- 
vancing in true politeness, when those theatrical exhibitions, 
which are designed for public amusement, are cleared from 
indelicate sentiment, or immoral tendency. Though the licen- 
tious buffoonery of Aristophanes amused the Greeks for a 
while, they advanced, by degrees, in a chaster and juster taste ; 
and the like progress of refinement may be concluded to take 
place among us, when the public receive with favour dramatic 
compositions of such a strain and spirit, as entertained the 
Greeks and Romans, in the days of Menander and Terence. 



INDEX. 






ACCENTS, thrown further back from the termination in the English than in 
any other language, 112. Seldom more than one in English words, 445. Go. 
vern the measure of English verse, 521. 

Achilles, his character in the Iliad, examined, 590. 

Action, much used to assist language in an imperfect state, 68. And by ancient 
orators and players, 70. Fundamental rule of propriety in, 454. Cautions 
with respect to, 455. In epic poetry, the requisites of, 575. 

Acts, the division of a play into five, an arbitrary limitation, C24. These pauses 
in representation ought to fall properly, 625. 

Adam, his character in Milton's Paradise Lost, 614. 

Addison, general view of his Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagination, 28. His 
invocation of «the muse in his Campaign, censured, 50. Blemishes in his style, 
132, 133, 143. Ease and perspicuity of, 147, 148, 151. His beautiful descrip- 
tion of light and colours, 182. Instance of his use of mixed metaphor, 194. 
Improper use of similes, 217. His general character as a writer, 247. Cha- 
racter of his Spectator, 256. Critical examination of some of those papers, 
257. Remarks on his criticism of Tasso's Aminta, 536, note. His tragedy of 
Cato critically examined, 623, 631, 636, 639. 

Adjectives, common to all languages, 99. H>w they came to be classed with 
nouns, ib. 

Adverbs, their nature and use defined, 105. Importance of their position in a 
sentence illustrated, 132. 

JEneid of Virgil, critical examination of that poem, 594. The subject, 595. 
Action, ib. Is deficient in characters, 596. Distribution and management 
of the subject, 597. Abounds with awful and tender scenes, 597. The descent 
of tineas into hell, ib. The poem left unfinished by Virgil, 599. 

Jbschines, a comparison between him and Demosthenes, 327. 

/Eschylus, his character as a tragic writer, 640. 

JElnu, remarks on Virgil's description of that mountain, 47. And on that by 
Sir Richard Rlackmore, 48. 

Affectation, the disadvantages of, in public speaking, 455. 

Ages, four peculiarly fruitful in learned men, pointed out, 470. 

Akenside, his comparison between sublimity in natural and moral objects, 34, 
note. Instance of his happy allusion to figures, 181. Character of his Plea- 
sures of the Imagination, 545. 

Alphabet of letters, the considerations which led to the invention of, 83. Remote 
obscurity of this invention, 84. The alphabets of different nations derived 
from one common source, 85. 

Allegory, explained, 196. Anciently a favourite method of conveying instruc- 
tions, 198. Allegorical personages improper agents in epic poetry, 583, 611. 

Ambiguity in style, whence it proceeds, 132. 

Amplification in speech, what, 225. Its principal instrument, 226. 

American languages, the figurative style of, 72, 178. 

Anagnorisis, in ancient tragedy, explained, 626. 

Annals, and history, the distinction between, 494. 

Ancients and moderns distinguished, 472. The merits of ancient writers are now 
finally ascertained, 472. The progress of knowledge favourable to the mo- 
derns in forming a comparison between them, 473. In philosophy and history, 
473. The efforts of genius greater among the ancients, 470. A mediocrity 
of genius now more diffused, 475. 

Antithesis in language explained, 220. The too frequent use of, censured, 221. 



666 INTDEX. 

Apostrophe, the nature of this figure explained, 211- Fine one from Cicero, 
550, note. 

Arabian Nights' Entertainments, a character of those tales, 507. 

Arabian poetry, its character, 516. 

Arauthnot, character of his epistolary -writing, 504. 

AiMtecture, sublimity in, whence it arises, 33. The sources of beauty in, 57. 

Arguments, the proper management of, in a discourse, 429. Analytic and syn- 
thetic methods, ib. Arrangement of, 430. Are Dot to be too much multi- 
plied, 432. 

Ariosto, character of his Orlando Furioso, 508, 60G. 

Aristotle, his rules for dramatic and epic compositions, whence derived, 24. Hia 
definition of a sentence, 129. His extended sense of the term metaphor, 1S5. 
Character of his style, 233, 238. His institutions of rhetoric, 365. His defi- 
nition of tragedy considered, 617. His observations on tragic characters, 633. 

Aristophanes, character of his comedies, 653. 

Arithmetical figures, universal characters, 82. 

Ark of the covenant, choral service performed in the procession of bringing It 
back to Mount Sion, 563. 

Armstrong, character of his Art of preserving Health, 545. 

Ai t, works of, considered as a source of beauty, 56. 

Ai tides, in language, the use of, 90. Their importance in the English Language 
illustrated, ib. 

Articulation, clearness of, necessary in public speaking, 445. 

Associations academical, recommended, 466. Instructions for the regulation 
of, 406. 

Athenians, ancient, character of, 321. Eloquence of, 322. 

Atterburtj, a more harmonious writer than Tillotson, 165. Critical examination 
of one of his sermons, 394. His exordium to a 30th of January sermon, 418. 

Attici and Asiani, parties at Rome, account of, 332. 

Anchors, petty, why no friends to criticism, 24. Why the most ancient afford 
the most striking instances of sublimity, 39. Must write with purity, to gain 
esteem, 114. 



Bacon, his observations on romances, 506. 

Ballads, have great influence over the manners of a people, 506. Were the first 
vehicles of historical knowledge and instruction, 514. 

Bar, the eloquence of, defined, 360. Why more confined than the pleadings 
before ancient tribunals, 362. Distinction between the motives of pleading at 
the bar, and speaking in popular assemblies, 360. In what respects ancient 
pleadings differ from those of modern times, 361. Instructions for pleaders, 
363, 424. 

Bards, ancient, the first founders of law and civilization, 514. 

Barrov), Dr., character of his style, 235. Character of his sermons, 392. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, their characters as dramatic poets, 658. 

Beauty, the emotion raised by, distinguished from that of sublimity, 51. Is a 
term of vague application, 52. Colours, ib. Figure, 53. Hogarth's line of 
beauty, and line of grace, considered, 54. Motion, ib. A landscape the 
most complete assemblage of beautiful objects, 55. The human countenance, 
ib. Works of art, 56. The influence of fitness and design in our ideas of 
beauty, ib. Beauty in literary composition, 57. Novelty, 58. Imita- 
tion, 59. 

Bergerus, a German critic, writes a treatise on the sublimity of Cssars Com- 
mentaries, 37. 

Berkeley, bishop, character of his Dialogues on the Existence of Matter, 501. 

Biography, as a class of historical composition, characterized, 495. 

Blackmore, Sir Richard, remarks on his description of Mount ./Etna, 48. 

Blackwall, his character as a writer, 249. 

Boileau, his character as a didactic poet, 548. 

Bolingbroke, instances of inaccuracy in his style, 140, 152. A beautiful climax 
from 150. A beautiful metaphor from, 186. His general character as a poli- 
tician and philosopher, 187. His general character as a writer, 250, 464. 

Bombast in writing, described, 50. 

Bossu, his definition of an epic poem, 571. His account of the composition of 
the Iliad, ib. 

Bossuct, M. instances of apostrophes to personified objects, in his Funeral 



INDEX. CC7 

Orations, 211, note. Conclusion of his funeral oration on the ptince of 

Condi', 441 
Britain, Great, not eminent for the study of eloquence, 338. Compared with 

France in this rSspect, 339. 
Bnniere, his parallel between the eloquence of the pulpit and the bar, 378, note. 
Buchanan, his character as a historian, 493. 
Building, how rendered sublime, 33. 

C 

Cadmus, account of his alphabet, 84. 

Casar's Commentaries, the style of, characterized, 34. Is considered by Berge- 
rus as a standard of sublime writing, 37. Instance of his happy talent in 
historical painting, 4S9, note. His character of Terence the dramatist, 655, 
note. 

Camoens, critical examination of his Lusiad, 600. Confused machinery of, 608. 

Campbell, Dr., his observations on English particles, 98, note. 

Carmet, Mount, metaphorical allusions to, in Hebrew poetry, 563. 

Casimir, his character as a lyric poet, 541. 

Catastrophe, the proper conduct of, in dramatic representations, 626 

Caudince, Furcae, Livy's happy description of the disgrace of the Roman army 
there, 488. 

Celtic language, its antiquity and character, 107. The remains of it, where to 
be found, ib. Poetry, its character, 515. 

Characters, the danger of labouring them too much in historical works, 492. 
The due requisites of, in tragedy, 632. 

Chinese language, character of, 69. And writing, 81. 

Chivalry, origin of, 507. 

Chorus, ancient, described, 619. Was the origin of tragedy, ib. Incon- 
veniences of, 621. How it might properly be introduced on the modern 
theatre, 622. 

Chronology, a due attention to, necessary in historical compositions, 481. 

Chrysostom, St., his oratorical character, 337. 

Cibber, his character as a dramatic writer, 659. 

Cicero, his ideas of taste, 11, note. His distinction between amare and diligere, 
124. His observation on style, 130. Very attentive to the beauties of climax, 
150. Is the most harmonious of all writers, 157. His remarks on the power 
of music in orations, 160. His attention to harmony too visible, 165. In- 
stance of his happy talent of adapting sound to sense, 166. His account of 
the origin of figurative langxiage, 177. His observations on suiting language 
to the subject, 188. His rule for the use of metaphor, 190. Instance of anti- 
thesis in, 220. The figure of speech called vision, 225. His caution against 
bestowing profuse ornament on an oration, 228. His distinctions of style, 232. 
His own character as a writer, 233. His character of the Grecian orators, 
324. His own character as an orator, 331. Compared with Demosthenes, 
333. Masterly apostrophe in, 350, note. His method of studying the judicial 
causes he undertook to plead, 3C3. State of the prosecution of Avitus Cluen- 
tius, 368. Analysis of Cicero's oration for him, 370. The exordium to his 
second oration against Rullus, 415. His method of preparing introductions 
to his orations, 416. Excelled in narration, 425. His defence of Milo, ib., 
431. Instance of the pathetic, in his last oration against Verres, 438. Cha- 
racter of his treatise Be Oratore, 468. Character of his Dialogues, 500. His 
Epistles, 503. 

Clarendon, lord, remarks on his style, 138. His character as a historian, 494. 

Clarke, Dr., the style of his sermons characterized, 391. 

Classics, ancient, their merits now finally settled beyond controversy, 472. The 
study of them recommended, 476. 

Climax, a great beauty in composition, 149. In what it consists, 225. 

Ctuentius, Avitus, history of his prosecution, 3C9. His cause undertaken by 
Cicero, ib. Analysis of Cicero's oration for him, 370. 

Colours considered as the foundation of beauty, 52. 

Comedy, how distinguished from tragedy, 616, 648. Rules for the conduct of, 
649. The characters in, ought to be of our own country, and of our own 
time, 650. Two kinds of, ib. Characters ought to be distinguished, 652. 
Style, ib. Rise and progress of comedy, C53. Spanish comedy, 655. French 
comedy, 656. English comedy, 657. Licentiousness of, from the era of the 
Restoration, 658. The reformation of, to what owing, 661. General re- 
ma; l.s, 663. 



m INDEX. 

Comparison, distinguished from metaphor, J 85. The nature of this figure ex- 
plained, 215. 

Composition. See Literary Composition. 

Congreve, the plot of his Mourning Bride embarras*™?, 624. General character 
of this tragedy, 647. His comedies, 6M. 

Conjugation of verbs, the varieties of, 102. 

Conviction distinguished from persuasion, 317. 

Copulatives, cautions for the use of them, 143. 

Corneille, his character as a tragic writer, 643. 

Cmqylets, the first introduction of, into English poetry, 525. 

Cowley, instances of forced metaphors in his poems, 190. His use of similes cen. 
sured, 219. His general character as a poet, 542. 

Crevier, his character of several eminent French writers, 463, not? 

Criticism, true and pedantic, distinguished, 6. Its object, 23. Its origin, ib. 
Why complained of by petty authors, 24. May sometimes decide against the 
voice of the public, 25. 

Cyphers, or arithmetical figures, a kind of universal character, 82. 



David, king, his magnificent institutions for the cultivation of sacred music and 
poetry, 559. His character as a poet, 568. 

Debate, in popular assemblies, the eloquence of, defined, 317. More particularly 
considered, 343. Rules for, 345. 

Declamation, unsupported by sound reasoning, false eloquence, 344. 

Declension of nouns considered, in various languages, 94. Whether cases or 
prepositions were most anciently used, 95. Which of them are most useful 
and beautiful, 27. 

Deities, heathen, probable cause of the number of, 203. 

Deliberative orations, what, 343. 

Delivery, the importance of, in public speaking, 3S2, 442. The four chief requi- 
sites in, 443. The powers of voice, ib. Articulation, 444. Pronunciation, 
445. Emphasis, 446. Pauses, 448. Declamatory delivery, 452. Action, 
454. Affectation, 455. 

Demetrius Phalerius, the rhetorician, his character, 328. 

Demonstrative orations, what, 343. 

Demosthenes, his eloquence characterized, 321. His expedients to surmount the 
disadvantages of his person and address, 326. His opposition to Philip of 
Macedon, ib. His rivalship with iEsclnaes, 327. His style and action, ib. 
Compared with Cicero, 333. Why his orations still please in perusal, 344. 
Extracts from his Philippics, 353-4. His definition of the several points of 
oratory, 442. 

Description, the great test of a poet's imagination, 549. Selection of circum- 
stances, ib. Inanimate objects should be enlivened, 553. Choice of epithets, 
555. 

Description and imitation, the distinction between, 60. 

Des Brosses, his speculations on the expressive power of radical letters and syl- 
lables, 66, note. 

Dialogue writing, the properties of, 499. Is very difficult to execute, ib. 
Modern dialogues characterized, 601. 

Didactic poetry, its nature explained, 542. The most celebrated productions in 
this class specified, 543. Rules for compositions of this kind, ib. Propel em- 
bellishments of, 544. 

Diderot, M., his character of English comedy, 061. 

Dido, her character in the jEneid examined, 596. 

Dionysius of Halicarnassus, his ideas of excellency in a sentence, 158. His dis- 
tinctions of style, 231. Character of his treatise on Grecian oratory, 325. 
His comparison between Lysias and Isocrates, 325, note. His criticism on 
Thucydides, 482. 

Discourse. . See Oration. 

Dramatic poetry, the origin of, 517. Distinguished by its objects, 616. See 
Tragedy and Comedy. 

Dryden, one of the first reformers of our style. 237. Johnson's character of his 
prose style, ib. note. His character as a poet, 525. His character of Shake- 
speare, 645, note. His own character as a dramatic writer, 647, 659. 
Du Bos, Abbe, his remark on the theatrical comoositions of the ancients, 159. 



INDEX. 669 



E 



Education, liberal, an essential requisite for eloquence, 319. 

Egypt, the style of the hieroglyphical writing of, 81 . This an early stage ofth e 

art of writing, ib. The alphabet probably invented in that country, 81. 
Emphasis, its importance in public speaking, 446. Rule for, 447. 
Eloquence, the several objects of consideration under this head, 314. Definition 
of the term, 316. Fundamental maxims of the art, ib. Defended against the 
objection of the abuse of the art of persuasion, ib. Three kinds of eloquence 
distinguished, ib. Oratory, the highest degree of, the offspring of passion, 
317. Requisites for eloquence, 318. French eloquence, 310. Grecian, 320. 
Rise and character of the rhetoricians of Greece, 323. Roman, 329. -The At- 
tici and Asiani, 332. Comparison between Cicero and Demosthenes, 333. The 
schools of the declaimers, 336. The eloquence of the primitive fathers of the 
church, 337. General remarks on modern eloquence, 338. Parliament, 343. 
The bar, ib, and pulpit, ib. The three kinds of orations distinguished by 
the ancients, ib. These distinctions how far correspondent with those made 
at present, 344. Eloquence of popular assemblies considered, ib. The founda- 
tion of eloquence, 345. The danger of trusting to prepared speeches at public 
meetings, 346. Necessary premeditation pointed out, ib. Method, 347. 
Style and expression, ib. Impetuosity, 349. Attention to decorums, 350. 
Delivery, 352, 442. Summary, 352. See Cicero, Demosthenes, Oration, and 
Pulpit. 

English language, the arrangement of words in, more refined than that of 
ancient languages, 76. But more limited, 77. The principles of general 
grammar seldom applied to it, 87. The important use of articles in, 90. All 
substantive nouns of inanimate objects, of the neuter gender, 92. The place 
of declension in, supplied by prepositions, 95. The various tenses of English 
verbs, 101. Historical view of the English language, 107. The Celtic the 
primitive language of Britain, ib. The Teutonic tongue the basis of our 
present speech, 108. Its irregularities accounted for, 109. Its copiousness, ib. 
Compared with the French language, 110. Its style characterized, ib. Its 
flexibility, 111. Is more harmonious-than is generally allowed, ib. Is rather 
strong than graceful, 112. Accent thrown farther back in English words than 
in those of any other language, ib. General properties of the English tongue, 
113. Why so loosely and inaccurately written, ib, The fundamental rules of 
syntax, common to both the English and Latin, 114. No author can gain 
esteem if he does not write with purity, 115. Grammatical authors recom- 
mended, 115, note. 

Epic poetry, the standards of, 476. Is the highest effort of poetical genius, 571. 
the characters, obscured by critics, ib. Examination of Bossu's account of 
the formation of the Iliad, 572. Epic poetry considered as to its moral ten- 
dency, 574. Predominant character of, ib. Action of, 575. Episodes, 576. 
The subject should be of remote date, 578. Modern history more proper for 
dramatic writing than for epic poetry, ib. The story must be interesting and 
skilfully managed, 579. The intrigue, ib. The question considered, whether 
it ought to end successfully, ib. Duration of the action, 580. Characters 
of the personages, 581. The principal hero, ib. The machinery, 582. Nar- 
ration, 583. Loose observations, 584. 

Episode, defined, with reference to epic poetry, 576. Rules for conduct of, 577. 

Epistolary writing, general remarks on, 501. 

Eve, her character in Milton's Paradise Lost, 6 14. 

Euripides, instance of his excellence in the pathetic, 638, note. His character 
as a tragic writer, 641. 

Exclamations, the proper use of, 223. Mode of their operation, ib. Rule for 
the employment of, ib. 

Exercise improves both bodily and mental powers, 13. 

Exordium of a discourse, the objects of, 413. R'Jes for the composition of, ib. 

Explication, of the subject of a sermon, observations on, 427. 



Face, human, the beauty of, complex, 55. 
Farquhar, his character as a dramatic writer, 660. 
Fathers, Latin, character of their style of eloquence, 337. 



670 INDEX. 

Fenelon, archbishop, his parrallel between Demosthenes and Cicero, 335. His 
remarks on the composition of a sermon, 421. Critical examination of his 
Adventaies of Telemachus, 608. 

Fielding, a character of his novels, 510. 

Figurative, style of language defined, 170. Is not a scholastic invention, but a 
natural effusion of imagination, 172. How described by rhetoricians, ib. Will 
not render a cold or empty composition interesting, 173. The pathetic and 
sublime reject figures of speech, 175. Origin of, ib. How they contribute to 
the beauty of style, 179. Illustrate description, 180. Heighten emotions, 189. 
The rhetorical names and classes of figures frivolous, 182. The beauties of 
composition not dependent on tropes and figures, 227. Figures must always 
rise naturally from the subject, ib. Are not to be profusely used, 228. The 
talentfof using derived from nature, and not to be created, 229. If improperly 
introduced, are a deformity, 229, note. See Metaphor. 

Figure, considered as a source of beauty, 52. 

Figures of speech, the origin of, 71. 

Figures of thought, among rhetoricians, defined, 172. 

Fitness and design, considered as sources of beauty, 56. 

Fleece, a poem, harmonious passage from, 169. 

Fontenelle, character of his Dialogues, 500. 

French, Norman, when introduced into England, 108. 

French writers, general remarks on their style, 234. Eloquence, 319, 3d8. French 
and English oratory compared, 339. 

Frigidity in writing characterized, 50. 

G 

Gay, a character of his pastorals, 535. 

Gender of nouns, foundation of, 91. 

Genius, distinguished from taste, 26. Its import, 27. Includes taste, ih. The 
pleasures of the imagination, a striking testimony of divine benevolence, 29. 
True, is nursed by liberty, 320. In arts and writing, why displayed more in 
one age than in another, 469. Was more vigorous in the ancients than in the 
moderns, 475. A general mediocrity of, now diffused, 475. 

Gesner, a character of his Idylls, 534. 

Gestures, in public oratory. See Action. 

Gil Bias, of Le Sage, character of that novel, 509. 

Girard, Abbe, character of his Synonymes Francois, 127, note. 

Gordon, instances of his unnatural disposition of words, 147. 

Gorgias of Leontium, the rhetorician, his character, 323. 

Gothic poetry, its character, 515. 

Gracchus, C. his declamations regulated by musical rules, 158. 

Grammar, general, the principles of, little attended to by writers, 87. The 
division of the several parts of speech, 88. Nouns substantive, 89. Articles, 
90. Number, gender, and case of nouns, 91. Prepositions, 95. Pronouns, 98. 
Adjectives, 99. Verbs, 100. Verbs, the most artificial and complex of all the 
parts of speech, 103. Adverbs, 105. Prepositions and conjunctions, ib. 
Importance of the study of grammar, 106. 

Grandeur. See Sublimity. 

Greece, short account of the ancient republics of, 320. Eloquence carefully 
studied there, 321. Characters of the distinguished orators of, 322. Rise and 
character of the rhetoricians, 323. 

Greek, a musical language, 69, 151. Its flexibility, 118. Writers distinguished 
for simplicity, 245. 

Guarini, character of his Pastor Fido, 53s. 

Guicciardini, his character as a historian, 493. 

H 

Habakkulc, sublime representation of the Deity in, 39. 

Harris, explanatory simile cited from, 215. 

Hebrew poetry, in what points of view to be considered, 557. The ancient 
pronunciation of, lost, 558. Music and poetry early cultivated among the 
Hebrews, ib. Construction of Hebrew poetry, 560. Is distinguished by a 
concise, strong, figurative expression, 561. The metaphors employed in, 
suggested by the climate and nature of the land of Judea, 563, 566. Bold and 



INDEX. 671 

sublime instances of personification in, ib. Book of Proverbs, 407. Lament- 
ations of Jeremiah, 508. Hook of Job, 570. 

Helen, her character in the Iliad examined, 589. 

Hell, the various descents into, given by epic poets, show the gradual improve- 
ment of notions concerning a future state, 009. 

Henriade. See Voltaire. 

Herodotus, his character as a historian, 482. 

Heroism, sublime instances of, pointed out, 33. 

Hervey, character of his style, 2-13. 

Hieroglyphics, the second stage of the art of writing, 80. Of Egypt, ib. 

Historians, modern, their advantages over the ancient, 473. Ancient models of, 
470. The objects of their duty, 478. Character of Po'lybius, 479. OfThucy- 
dides, 4S0. Of Herodotus and Thuanus, 482. Primary qualities necessary 
in a historian, 483. Character of Livy and Sallust, 484. Of Tacitus, ib. 
Instructions and cautions to historians, ib. How to preserve the dignity of 
narration, 486. How to render it interesting, 467. Danger of refining too 
much in drawing character, 492. Character of the Italian historians, ib. 
the French and English, 493. 

History, the proper object and end of, 478. True, the characters of, ib. The 
different classes of, ib. General history, the proper conduct of, 479. The 
necessary qualities of historical narration, ib. The propriety of introducing 
orations in history examined, 490. And characters, 491. The Italians, the 
best modern historians, 492. See Annals, Biography, Blemoirs, and Novels. 

Hogarth, his Analysis of beauty considered, 54. 

Homer, not acquainted with poetry as a systematic art, 24. Did not possess a 
refined taste, 27. Instances of sublimity in, 40. Is remarkable for .the use of 
personification, 200. Story of the Iliad, 586. Remarks on, 587. His inven- 
tion and judgment in the conduct of the poem, 588. Advantages and defects 
arising from his narrative speeches, 589. His characters, i&. His machinery, 
590. His style, 591. His skill in narrative description, 592. His similes, 
593. General character of his Odyssey, 594. Defects of the Odyssey, ib. 
Compared with Virgil, 595. 

Hooker, a specimen of his style, 236. 

Horace figurative passages cited from, 179. Instance of mixed metaphor in, 
195. Crowded metaphors, ib. His character as a poet, 541. Was the re- 
former of satire, 545. 

Humour, why the English possess this quality more eminently than other nations, 
657. 

Hyperbole, an explanation of that figure, 199. Cautions for the use of, ib. Two 
kinds of, 200. 

I 

Ideas, abstract, entered into the first formation of language, CS9. 

Jeremiah, his poetical character, 569. See Lamentations. 

Iliad, story of, 586. Remarks on, ib. The principal characters, 5S9. Ma- 
chinery of, 590. 

Imagination, the pleasures of, as specified by Mr. Addison, 28. The powers of, 
to enlarge the sphere of our pleasures, a striking instance of divine benevo- 
lence, 29. Is the source of figurative language, 172, 178. 

Imitation, considered as a source of pleasure to taste, 59. And description, 
distinguished, 60. 

Inferences from a sermon, the proper management of, 440. 

Infinity of space, numbers, or duration, affect the mind with sublime ideas, 30. 

Interjections the first elements of speech, 64. 

Interrogations, instances of the happy use and effect of, 223. Mode of their 
operation, ib. Rule of using, ib. 

Job, exemplification of the sublimity of obscurity in the book of, 33. Remarks 
on the style of, 558. The subject and poetry of, 509. Fine passage from, 570. 

Johnson, his character of Dryden's prose style, 237, note. His remarks ou the 
style of Swift, 300, note. His character of Thomson, 550, note. His 
character of Dryden's comedies, 059, note. His character of Congreve, 600, 
note. 

Jon&on, Ben, his character as a dramatic poet, 658. 

Isceus, the rhetorician, his character, 525. 

Isaiah, sublime representation of the deity in, 40. His description of the fall of 
the Assyrian empire, 213. His metaphors suited to the climate of Judea, 503, 
564. His character as a poet, 568. 



672 INDEX. 

Isocrates, the rhetorician, his character, 921 , 

Judea, remarks on the climate and natural circumstances of that country, 664. 

Judicial orations, what, 343. 

Juvenal, character of his satires, 5-1(5 



Raimes, lord, his severe censure of English comedies, 6C1. 

Knight-errantry, foundation of the romances concerning, 507. 

Knowledge, an essential requisite for eloquence, 461. The progress of, in favour 

of the moderns, upon a comparison with the ancients, 473. The acquisition 

of, difficult in former ages, 474. 



Lamentations of Jeremiah, the most perfect elegiac composition in the sacred 
Scriptures, 569. 

Landscape, considered as an assemblage of beautiful objects, 55. 

Language, the improvement of, studied even by rude nations, 1. In what the 
true improvement of language consists, 2. Importance of the study of lan- 
guage, ib. Defined, 62. The present refinements of, ib. Origin and progress 
of, 63. The first elements of, 64. Analogy between words and things, 65. 
The great assistance afforded by gestures, 63. The Chinese language, 69. 
The Greek and Roman languages, ib. Action much used by ancient orators 
and players, ib. Roman pantomimes, 70. Great difference between ancient 
and modern pronunciation, ib. Figures of speech, the origin of, 71. Figura- 
tive style of American languages, 72. Cause of the decline of figurative 
language, 73. The natural and original arrangement of words in speech, 74. 
The arrangement of words in modern languages, different from that of the 
ancients, 76. An exemplification, ib. Summary of the foregoing observations, 
78. Its wonderful powers, 181. All language strongly tinctured with me- 
taphor, 185. In modern productions, often better than the subjects of them, 
313. Written and oral, distinction between, 463. See Grammar, Style, and 
Writing. 

Latin language, the pronunciation of, musical, and gesticulating, 69, 157. The 
natural arrangement of words in, 75. The want of articles a defect in, 90. 
Remarks on the words deemed synonymous in, 124. 

Learning, an essential requisite for eloquence, 460. 

Lebanon, metaphorical allusions to, in Hebrew poetry, 565. 

Lee, extravagant hyperbole quoted from, 201. His character as a tragic poet, 
647. 

Liberty, the nurse of true genius, 318. 

Literary Composition, importance of the study of language, preparatory to, 5. 
The beauties of, indefinite, 57. To what class the pleasures received from 
eloquence, poetry, and fine writing, are to be referred, 59. The beauties of, 
not dependent on tropes and figures, 227. The different kinds of, distinguish- 
ed, 477. See History, Poetry, &c. 

Livy, his character as a historian, 484, 488. 

Locke, general character of his style, 239. The style of his Treatise on Human 
Understanding, compared with the writings of Lord Shaftesbury, 498. 

Longinus, strictures on his Treatise on the Sublime, 37. His account of the 
consequences of liberty, 318. His sententious opinion of Homer's Odyssey, 
594. 

Lopez de Vega, his character as a dramatic poet, 656. 

Love, too much importance and frequency allowed to, on the modern stage, 
6S4. 

Louth 's English Grammar recommended, 115, note; 145, note. His character of 

the prophet Ezekiel, 569. 
tucan, instance of his destroying a sublime expression of Caesar, by amplifica- 
tion, 43. Extravagant hyperbole from, 201. Critical examination of his 
Pharsalia, 599. The subject, 600. Characters and conduct of the story, ib. 
Lucian, character of his Dialogues, 500. 

Lucretius, his sublime representation of the dominion of superstition over man- 
kind, 32, note. The most admired passages in his treatise De Rerum Natura, 
544. 
Lusiad. See Camoent. 



INDEX. (V/j 

Lyric poetry, the peculiar character of, 537. Four classes of odes, 538 Cha- 
racters of the most eminent lyric poets, 541. 
Lysias, the rhetorician, his character, 325. 

M 

Machiavel, his character as a historian, 492. 

Machinery, the great use of, in epic poetry, 582. Cautions for the use of, 
583, 590. 

Mackenzie, Sir George, instance of regular climax in his pleadings, 220. 

Man, by nature both a poet and musician, 513. 

Marivaux, a character of his novels, 509. 

Marmontel, his comparative remarks on French, English, ai;d Italian poetry, 
523, note. 

Marsy, Fr. his contrast between the characters of Corneille and Racine, 013, 
note. 

Mussillon, extract from a celebrated sermon of his, 391, note. Encomium on, by 
Louis XIV. 393. His artful division of a text, 423. 

Memoirs, their class in historical composition assigned, 495. Why the French 
are fond of this kind of writing, ib. 

Metalepsis, in figurative language, explained, 184. 

Metaphor, in figurative style, explained, 184. All language strongly tinctured 
with, ib. Approaches the nearest to painting of all the figures of speech, 185. 
Rules to be observed in the conduct of, 187. See Allegory. 

Metastasio, his character as a dramatic writer, 644. 

Metonymy, in figurative style, explained, 183. 

Mexico, historical pictures the records of that empire, 80. 

Milo, narrative of the rencounter between him and Clodius, by Cicero, 420. 

Milton, instances of sublimity in, 32,44,47. Of harmony, 157, 108. Hyper- 
bolical sentiments of Satan in, 200. Striking instances of personification in, 
206, 207, 208. Excellence of his descriptive poetry, 551. Who the proper 
hero of his Paradise Lost, 581. Critical examination of this poem, 612. His 
sublimity characterized, 614. His language and versification, 015. 

Moderns. See Ancients. 

MolUre, his character as a dramatic poet, 656. 

Monboddo, lord, his observations on English and Latin verse, 521, note. 

Monotony in language, often the result of too great attention to musical air<;u^e- 
ment, 104. 

Montagve, lady Mary Wortley, a character of her epistolary style, 505. 

Montesquieu, character of his style, 233. 

Monumental inscriptions, the numbers suited to the style, 106. 

Moralt, M. his severe censure of English comedy, 661. 

More, Dr. Henry, character of his Divine Dialogues, 501. 

Motion, considered as a source of beauty, 54. 

Motte, M. de la, his observations on lyric poetry, 540, note. Remarks on his 
criticism on Homer, 593, note. 

Music, its influence on the passions, 513. Its union with poetry, 514. Their 
separation injurious to each, 518. 

N 

Ptaiveie", import of that French term, 244. 

Narration, an important point in pleadings at the bar, 424. 

Night scenes, commonly sublime, 31. 

Nomic melody of the Athenians, what, 158. 

Novels, a species of writing not so insignificant as may be imagined, 506. Might 
be employed for very useful purposes, ib. Rise and progress of fictitious his- 
tory, 508. Characters* of the most celebrated romances and novels, 509. 

Novelty considered as a source of beauty, 58, 

Nouns, substantive, the foundation of all grammar, 88. Number, gender, and 
cases of, 61. 

O 

Obscurity, not unfavourable to sublimity, 32. Of 6tyle, owing to indistinct con- 
ceptions, 117. 

Ode, the nature of, defined, 537. Four distinctions of, 538. Obscurity and ir- 
regularity, the great faults in, ib. 

2 x 



674 INDEX 

Odyssey, general character of, 093. Defects of, ib 

CEdipus, an improper character for the stage, 033. 

Orators, ancient, declaimed in recitative, 69. 

Orations, the three kinds of, distinguished by the ancients, 342. The present 
distinctions of, 343. Those in p»ijmla r assemblies considered, 345. Prepared 
speeches not to be trusted to, 346. Necessary degrees of premeditation, ib. 
Method, 347. Style and expression, ib. Impetuosity, 348. Attention 'o 
decorums, 350. Delivery, 353, 442. The several parts of a regular oration, 
413. Introduction,^. Introduction to replies, 419. Introduction to sermons, 
421. Division of a discourse, 422. Rules for dividing it, 423. Explica- 
tion, 424. The argumentative part, 429. The pathetic, 434. The pero- 
ration, 440. Virtue necessary to the perfection of eloquence, 459. Descrip- 
tion of a true orator, 462. Qualifications for, ib. The best ancient writers 
on oratory, 468, 477. The use made of orations by the ancient historians, 490. 
See Eloquence. 
.Oriental poetry, more characteristical of an age than of a country, 515. 

style of Scripture language, 73. 

Orlando Furioso. See Ariosto. 

Ossian, instances of sublimity in his works, 41. Correct metaphors, 192. Con- 
fused mixture of metaphorical and plain language in, ib. Fine apostrophe in, 
212. Delicate simile, 216. Lively descriptions in, 554. 

Otway, his character as a tragic poet, 647. 

P 

Pantomime, an entertainment of Roman origin, 69. 

Parable, eastern, their general vehicle for the conveyance of truth, 565. 

Paradise Lost, critical review of that poem, 012. The characters in, 613. Sub- 
limity of, 614. Language and versification, 615. 

Parentheses, cautions for the use of them, 140. 

Paris, his character in the Iliad, examined, 5S9. 

Parliament of Great Britain, why eloquence has never been so powerful an in- 
strument in, as in the ancient popular assemblies of Greece and Rome, 341. 

Parnell, his character as a descriptive poet, 551. 

Particles, cautions for the use of them, 142. Ought never to close sentences, 
151. 

Passion, the source of oratory, 317. 

Passions, when and how to be addressed by orators, 434. The orator must feel 
emotions before he can communicate them to others, 437. The language of, 
ib. Poets address themselves to the passions, 511. 

Pastoral poetry, inquiry into its origin, 526. A threefold view of pastoral life, 
527. Rules for pastoral writing, ib. Its scenery, 529. Characters, 530. 
Subjects, 532. Comparative merits of ancient pastoral writers, 533. And of 
moderns, 534. 

Pathetic, the proper management of, in a discourse, 434. Fine instance of, from 
Cicero, 439. 

Pauses, the due uses of, in public speaking, 449. In poetry, 450, 522. 

Pericles, the first who brought eloquence to any degree of perfection, 322. His 
general character, ib. 

Period. See Sentence. 

Personification, the peculiar advantages of the English language in, 93. Limita- 
tions of gender in, ib. Objections against the practice of, answered, 202. 
The disposition to animate the objects about us, natural to mankind, 203. 
This disposition may account for the number of heathen divinities, ib. Three 
degrees of this figure, 204. Rules for the management of the highest degree 
of, 209. Caution for the use of, in prose compositions, 210. See Apostroplie. 

Persius, a character of his Satires, 546. 

Perspicuity, essential to a good style, 116. Not merely 1 a negative virtue, 117. 
The three qualities of, 118. 

Persuasion, distinguished from conviction, 315. Objection brought from the 
abuse of this art, answered, 316. Rules for, 344. 

Peruvians, their method of transmitting their thoughts to each other, 8L 

Petronius Arbiter, his address to the declaimers of his time, 336. 

Pharsalia. See Lucan. 

Pherecydes of Scyros, the first prose writer, 73. 

Philips, character of his pastorals, 535. 

Philosophers, modern, their superiority over the ancient, unquestionable 3 473* 



INDEX. 675 

Philosophy, the proper style of writinsr. adapted to, 407. Proper embellishments 
for, 498. 

Pictures, the first essay toward writing, 79. 

Pindar, his character as a lyric poet, 540. 

Pisistratus, the first who cultivated the arts of speech, 321. 

Pitcairn, Dr., extravagant hyperbole cited from, 202. 

Plato, character of his dialogues, 499. 

Plautus, his character as a dramatic poet, C54. 

Pleaders at the bar, instructions to, 363, 424. 

Pliny's Letters, general character of, 503. 

Plutarch, his character as a biographer, 495. 

Poetry, in what sense descriptive, and in what imitative, 59. Is more ancient 
than prose, 73. Source of the pleasure we receive from the figurative style of, 
206. Test of the merit of, 213. Whence the difficulty of reading poetry 
arises, 449. Compared with oratory, 457. Epic, the standards of, 476. 
Definition of poetry, 511. Is addressed to the imagination and the passions, 
ib. Its origin, 5f2. In what sense older than prose, ih. Its union with 
music, 513. Ancient history and instruction first conveyed in poetry, 514. 
Oriental, more characteristical of an age than of a country, 515. Gothic, 
Celtic, and Grecian, ib. Origin of the different kinds of, 517. Was more 
vigorous in its first rude essays than under refinement, 518. Was injured by 
the separation of music from it, ib. Metrical feet, invention of, 519. These 
measures not applicable to English poetry, 520. English heroic verse, the 
structure of, 521. French poetry, ib. Rhyme and blank verse compared, 523. 
Progress of English versification, 525. Pastorals, 526. Lyrics, 537. Didac 
tic poetry, 542. Descriptive poetry, 548. Hebrew poetry, 557. Epic poetry, 
671. Poetic characters, two kinds of, 581. Dramatic poetry, 61". 

Pointing, cannot correct a confused sentence, 140. 

Politics, the science of, why ill understood among the ancients, 483. 

Polybius, his character as a historian, 479. 

Pope, criticism on a passage in his Homer, 44. Prose specimen from, consisting 
of short sentences, 130. Other specimens of his style, 147, 154. v. nfused 
mixtures of metaphorical and plain language in, 191. Mixed metaphor in, 
194. Confused personification, 209. Instance of his fondness for antitheses, 
222. Character of his epistolary writings, 504. Criticism on, ib. Construc- 
tion of his verse, 521. Peculiar character of his versification, 525. His pas- 
torals, 532, 535. His Ethic Epistles, 547. The merits of his various poems 
examined, ib. Character of his translation of Homer, 591. 

Precision in language, in what it consists, 119. The importance of, 131. Re- 
quisites to, 127. 

Prepositions, whether more ancient than the declension of nouns by cases, 95. 
Whether more useful and beautiful, 97. Dr. Campbell's observations on, 9S, 
note. Their great use in speech, 105. 

Prior, allegory cited from, 197. 

Pronouns, their use, varieties, and cases, 9S. Relative, instances illustrating the 
importance of their proper position in a sentence, 133. 

Pronunciation, distinctness of, necessary in public speaking, 446. Tones of, 451. 

Provei-bs, book of, a didactic poem, 567. 

Psalm xviii., sublime representation of the Deity in, 39. Jxxxtb, a fine allegory 
from, 197. Remarks on the poetic construction of the Psalms, 560, 564. 

Pulpit, the eloquence of, defined, 317. English and French sermons compared, 
339. The practice of reading sermons in England disadvantageous to oratory, 
341. The art of persuasion resigned to the puritans, 342. Advantages and 
disadvantages of pulpit eloquence, 377. Rules for preaching, 380. The chief 
characteristics of pulpit eloqu"" ,e, 381. Whether it is best to read sermons, 
or deliver them extempore, ? .. Pronunciation,^. Remarks on French ser- 
mons, 389. Cause of Uv .ry argumentative style of English sermons, 391. 
General observations, '?' . 

Q 

Quintilian, his ideas of taste, 11, note. His account of the ancient division of 
the several parts of speech, 88, note. His remarks on the importance of the 
study of grammar, 106. On perspicuity of styie, 116, 123. On climax, 149. 
On the structure of sentences, 152. Which ou^ht not to offend the ear, 155, 
162. His caution against too great an attention to harmony, 164. His cau- 
tiou against mixed metaphor, 192. His fine apostrophe on the death of his 



676 



INDEX. 



Ron, 212. His rule for the use of similes, 219. His directions for the use of 
figures of style, 229. His distinctions of style, 231, 240. His instructions for 
good writing, 252, 253. His character of Cicero's oratory, 332. His instruc- 
tions to public speakers for preserving decorums, 352. His instructions to 
judicial pleaders, 3G3. His observations on exordiums to replies in debate, 
420. On the proper division of an oration, 422. His mode of addressing the 
passions, 437. His lively representation of the effects of depravity, 459 I 
the best ancient writer on oratory. 4G8. 

R 

Racine, his character as a tragic poet, 643. 

Ramsay, Allan, character of his Gentle Shepherd, 53T. 

Rapin, P., remarks on his parallels between Greek and Roman writers, 334. 

Retz, cardinal de, character of his memoirs, 495. 

Rhetoricians, Grecian, rise and character of, 323. 

Rhyme, in English verse, unfavourable to sublimity, 43. And blank verse com- 
pared, 524. The former, why improper in the Greek and Latin languages, 
ib. The first introduction of couplets in English poetry, 525. 

Richardson, a character of his novels, 510. 

Ridicule, an instrument often misapplied, 049. 

Robinson Crusoe, character of that novel, 509. 

Romance, derivation of the term, 508. See Novels. 

Romans, derived their learning from Greece, 'AW. Comparison between th<>m 
and the Greeks, 330. Historical view of their eloquence, ib. Oratorical 
character of Cicero, 331. jEra of the decline of eloquence among, 336. 

Rousseau, Jean Baptiste, his character as a lyric poet, 541. 

Roive, his character as a tragic poet, 647. 






Sallusl, his character as a historian, 4S0. 

Sannazarius, his piscatory eclogues, 531. 

Satan, examination of his character in Milton's Paradise Lost, 613. 

Satire, poetical, general remarks on the style of, 545. 

Saxon language, how established in England, 107. 

Scenes, dramatic, what, and the proper conduct of, 628. 

Scriptures, sacred, the figurative style of, remarked, 73. The translators of, 
happy in suiting their numbers to the subject, 167. Fine apostrophe in, 212. 
Present us with the most ancient monuments of poetry extant, 557. Tho 
diversity of style in the several books of, 557. The Psalms of David, 560. No 
other writings abound witli such bold and animated figures, 501. Parables, 565. 
Bold and sublime instances of personification, 560. Book of Proverbs, 567. 
Lamentations of Jeremiah, ib. 

Scuderi, madam, her jomances, 508. 

Seneca, his frequent antitheses censured, 221. Character of his general style, 498. 
His epistolary writings, 501. 

Sentence in language, definition of, 128. Distinguished into long and short, 129. 
A variety in, to be studied, 130. The properties essential to a perfect sen- 
tence, 131. A principal rule for arranging the members of, 132. Position of 
adverbs, ib. And relative pronouns, 133. Unity of a sentence, rules for pre- 
serving, 136. Pointing, 140. Parentheses, ib. Should always be brought to 
a perfect close, 141. Strength, 142. Should be cleared of redundancies, t'6. 
Due attention to particles recommended, 143. The omission of particles some- 
times connects objects closer together, 145. Directions for placing the import- 
ant words, 140. Climax, 149. A like order necessary to be observed in all 
assertions or propositions, 151. Sentence ought not to conclude with a feeble 
word, ib. Fundamental rule in the construction of, 155. Sound not to be 
disregarded, ib. Two circumstances to be attended to for producing har- 
mony in, l.>6, 168. Rules of the ancient rhetoricians for this purpose, 158. 
Why harmony much less studied now than formerly, ib. English words 
cannot be so exactly measured by metrical feet, as those of Greek and Latin, 
160. What is required for the musical close of a sentence, 103. Unmeaning 
words introduced merely to round a sentence, a great blemish, ib. Sounds 
ought to be adapted to sense, 160. 

Sermons, English, compared with Trench, 339. Unity an indispensable requi- 
site in, 382. Tho subject ought to be precise and •'articular, ib. The sub- 



INDEX. 677 

Ject not to be exhausted, 383. Cautions against dryness, 384. And against 
conforming to fashionable modes of preaching, 385. Style, 38G. Quaint 
expressions, 387. Whether best to be written or delivered extempore, 388. 
Delivery, ib. Remarks on French sermons, 3H9. Cause of the dry argumen- 
tative style of English sermons, 392. General observations, 393. Remarks 
on the proper division of, 422. Conclusion, 441. Delivery, 442. 

Sevignf, madame de, character of her letters, 505. 

Shaftesbury, lord, observations on his style, 121,139, 148, 149, 1G4, 190. His 
general character as a writer, 248. 

Shakespeare, the merit of his plays examined, 20. Was not possessed of a refined 
taste, 27. Instance of his improper use of metaphor, 1S9, 193. Kxhihitn 
passions in the language of nature, 638. His character as a tragic poet, 045. 
As a comic poet, 058. 

Shenstone, his pastoral ballad, 535. 

Shepherd, the proper character of, in pastoral description, 531. 

Sheridan, his distinction between ideas and emotions, 451, note. 

Sherlock, bishop, fine instance of personification cited from his sermons, 205. 
A happy allusion cited from his sermons, 387, note. 

Silius Italicus, his sublime representation of Hannibal, 35, note. 

Simile, distinguished from metaphor, 185, 214. Sources of the pleasure they 
afford, ib. Two kinds of, 215. Requisites in, 210. Rules for, 217. Local 
propriety to be adhered to in, 219. 

Simplicity, applied to style, different senses of the term, 243. 

SmoUet, improper use of figurative style, cited from, 188, note. 

Solomon's Song, descriptive beauties of, 553. 

Songs, Runic, the origin of Gothic history, 514. 

Sophists of Greece; rise and character of, 323. 

Sophocles, the plots of his tragedies remarkably simple, 023. Excelled in the 
pathetic, 037. His character as a tragic poet, 011. 

Sorrow, why the emotions of, excited by tragedy, communicate pleasure, 097. 

Sounds, of an awful nature, affect us with sublimity, 31. Influence of, in the 
formation of words, 05. 

Speaker, public, must be directed more by his ear than by rules, 101. 

Spectator, general character of that publication, 255. Critical examination of 
those papers that treat of the pleasures of imagination, 250. 

Speech, the powers of, the distinguishing privilege of mankind, 1. Tie gram- 
matical division of, into eight parts, not logical, 88. Of the ancients, regu- 
lated by musical rules, 158. 

Strada, his character as a historian, 493. 

Style in language defined, 115. The difference of, in different countries, 110. 
The qualities of a good style, ib. Perspicuity, 110. Obscurity, owing to indis- 
tinct conceptions, 117. Three requisite qualities in perspicuity, 118. Precision, 
ib. A loose style, from what it proceeds, 120. Too great an attention to 
precision renders a style dry and barren, 128. French distinction of style, 130. 
The characters of, flow from peculiar modes of thinking, 230. Different 
subjects reo.uire a different style, ib. Ancient distinctions of, 231. The dif- 
ferent kinds oi, 232. Concise and diffusive, on what occasions proper, ib. Ner- 
vous and feeble, 235. A harsh style, from what it proceeds, 236. jEra of the 
formation of our present style, 237. Dry manner described, ib. A plain style, 238. 
A neat :ty\e, 239. Elegant style, 240. Florid style, ib. Natural style, 
212. Different senses of the term simplicity, 243. The Greek writers 
distinguished for simplicity, 245. Vehement style, 249. General directions 
how to attain a good style, 251. Imitation dangerous, 253. Style not to be 
studied to the neglect of thoughts, 254. Critical examination of those papers 
in the Spectator that treat of the pleasures of imagination, 257. Critical 
examination of a passage in Swift's writings, 302. General observations, 313. 
See Eloquence. 

Sublimity, of external objects, and sublimity in writing, distinguished, 29. Its 
impressions, 30. Of space, ib. Of sounds, 31. Violence of the elements, ib. 
Solemnity bordering on the terrible, 32. Obscurity, not unfavourable to, ib. 
In building, 33. Heroism, 34. Great virtue, 35. Whether there is any one 
fundamental quality in the sources of sublime, ib. 

Sublimity in writing defined, 30. Errors in Longinus pointed out, 37. The most 
ancient writers afford the most striking instances of sublimity, 39. Sublime 
representation of the Deity in Psalm xviii. ib. And in the prophet Habukkuk, 
: j .9. In Moses ;:nd Isaiah, 10. Instances of sublimity in Homer, ib. In Ossian, 
41. Amplification injurious to sublimity, 42. Rhyme in English verse un- 



678 



INDEX. 



favourable to, 4-1. Strength essential to sublime writing, 45. A proper choica 
of circumstances essential to sublime description, ib. Strictures on Virgil's 
description of Mount /Etna, 47. The proper sources of the sublime, 48. Sub- 
lim ty consists in the thought, not in the words, 49. The faults opposed to 
tiie sublime, 50. 

Sully, duke de, character of his Memoirs, 495. 

Superstition, sublime representation of its dominion over mankind, from Lucre- 
tius, 33, note. 

Swift, observations on his style, 113, 129, 133, 159, IC5. General character of 
his style, 238. Critical examination of the beginning of his Proposal for 
correcting, &c. the English tongue, 300. Concluding observations, 312. His 
language, 4G-1. Character of his epistolary writing, 504. 

Syllables, English, cannot be so exactly measured by metrical feet, as those of 
Greek and Latin, 160. 

Synecdoche, in figurative style, explained, 1S4. 

Synonymous words, observations on, 123. 



Tacitus, character of his style, 233. His character as a historian, 481. His 
happy manner of introducing incidental observations, 485. Instance of his 
successful talent in historical painting, 490. His defects as a writer, ih. 

Tasso, a passage from his Gierusalemme distinguished by the harmony of num- 
bers, 168. Strained sentiments in his pastorals, 531. Character of his 
_ Aminta, 530. Critical examination of his Jerusalem Delivered, 603. 

Taste, true, the uses of, in common life, 8. Definition of, 10. Is more or less 
common to all men, 11. Is an improveable faculty, 12. How to be refined, 
13. Is assisted by reason, 14. A good heart requisite to a just taste, 15. 
Delicacy and correctness the characters of perfect taste, ib. Whether there 
be any standard of taste, 16. The diversity of, in different men, no evidence 
of their taste being corrupted, 18. The test of, referred to the concurring 
voice of the polished part of mankind, 21. Distinguished from genius, 26. 
The sources of pleasure in, 28. The powers of, enlarge the sphere of our plea- 
sures, 29. Imitation, as a source of pleasure, 59. Music, ib. To what class 
the pleasures received from eloquence, poetry, and fine writing, are to be re- 
ferred, ib. 

Tele/nachus. See Fenelon. 

Temple, Sir William, observations on his style, 121. Specimens, 120,138, 141, 
144, 162. His general character as a writer, 2,6. 

Terence, beautiful instance of simplicity from, 2 15. His character as a dramatic 
writer, 655. 

Terminations of words, the variations of, in the Greek and Latin languages, 
favourable to the liberty of transpositions, 78. 

Theocritus, the earliest known writer of pastorals,- 526. His talent in painting 
rural scenery, 529. Character of his pastorals, £34. 

Thomson^ fine passage from, where he animates all nature, 207. Character of his 
Seasons, 550. His eulogium by Dr. Johnson, 551, note. 

Thuanus, his character as a historian, 482. 

Thucydides, his character as a historian, 480. Was the first who introduced 
orations in historical narration, 490. 

Tillotsoii, archbishop, observations on his style, 121, 135, 162, 189. General 
character of, as a writer, 246. 

Tones, the due management of, in public speaking, 452. 

Topics, among the ancient rhetoricians, explained, 428. 

Tragedy, how distinguished from comedy, 616. More particular definition of, ib. 
Subject and conduct of, 618. Rise and progress of, 619. The three dramatic 
unities, 622. Division of the representation into acts, 624. The catastrophe, 
626. Why the sorrow excited by tragedy communicates pleasure, 627. The 
proper idea of scenes, and how to be conducted, 628. Character, 632. 
Higher degress of morality inculcated by modern than by ancient tragedy, 
634. Too great use made of the passion of love on the modern stage, ib. All 
tragedies expected to be pathetic, 635. The proper use of moral reflections 
in, 638. The proper style and versification of, 639. Brief view of the Greek 
Btage, 640. French tragedy, 642. English tragedy, 645. Concluding obser- 
vations, 647. 

Tropes, a definition of, 171. Origin of, 175. The rhetorical distinctions among, 

[ frivolous, 181. 



INDEX. <T79 

Tttnius, the character of, not favourably treated in the /Eneid, 597. 
Turpin, archbishop of Rheims, a romance writer, 508. 
Typographical figures of speech, what, 22 1. 



V<m&ui'g7t,hischaracter as a dramatic writer, 660. 

Verbs, their nature and office explained, 101. No sentence complete without a 
verb expressed or implied, ib. The tenses ib. The advantage of English 
over the Latin in the variety of ten-es, 102. Active and passive, 103. Are the 
most artificial and complex of all the parts of speech, ib. 

Verse, blank, more favourable to sublimity than rhyme, 43. Instructions for the 
reading of, 450. Construction of, 524. 

Virgil, instances of sublimity in, 32, 45, 47. Of harmony, 169, 170. Simplicity 
of language, 174. Figurative language, 183, 204, 211. Specimens of his 
pastoral descriptions, 528, note; 531. Character of his pastoral, 533. His 
Georgics, a perfect model of didactic poetry, 543. The principal beauties in, 
the Georgics, 545. Beautiful descriptions in his iEneid, 554. Critical 
examination of that poem, 595. Compared with Homer, 598. 

Virtue, high degrees of, a source of the sublime, 35. A necessary ingredient to 
form an elegant orator, 459. 

Vision, the figure of speech so termed, in what it consists, 225. 

Unities, dramatic, the advantages of adhering to, 022. Why the moderns are 
less restricted to the unities of time and place than the aucients, 630. 

Voice, the powers of, to be studied in public speaking, 441. 

Voiture, character of his epistolary writings, 505. 

Voltaire, his character as a historian, 496. Critical examination of his Henriade, 
6L0. His argument for the use of rhyme in dramatic composition.?, G3U. 
His character as a tragic poet, 644. 

Vossius, Joannes Gerardus, character of his writings on eloquence, 468. 

W 

Waller, the first English poet who brought couplets into vogue, 525. 

Wit is to be very sparingly used at the bar, 367. 

Words, obsolete, and new coined, incongruous with purity of style, 113. Rad 
consequences of their being ill chosen, ib. Observations on those termed 
synonymous, 123. Considered with reference to sound, 155. 

Words, and things, instances of the analogy between, 65. 

Writers of genius, why they have been more numerous in one age than in another, 
469. Four happy ages of, pointed out, 470. 

Writing, two kinds of, distinguished, 79. Pictures the first essay in, ib. Hiero- 
glyphics the second, 80. Chinese characters, 81. Arithmetical figures, 82. 
The considerations which led to the invention of an alphabet, 83. Cadmus's 
alphabet, the origin of that now used, 84. Historical account of the materials 
used to receive writing, 85. General remarks, ib. See Grammar. 

Y 

Young, Dr., his poetical character, 196. Too fond of antitheses, 221. The 
merit of his works examined, 548. His character as a tragic poet, 647. 



THE END. 



